


The Joey Drew Studios Unused Reel Collection

by TipsyEpsy



Category: Bendy Crack-up Comics, Bendy and the Ink Machine, Bendy and the dark revival, boris and the dark survival
Genre: Accidental use of racist terms, Aliens?, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Animal Death, Animal Transformation, Attempted Kidnapping, Bendy is a pal, Body Horror, Buddy isn't completely gone, Cameraman wishes he were anywhere else, Cannibalism, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Cattle Mutilation, Child Death, Child Traumatization, Disfigurement, Dismemberment, Disturbing Symptoms, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Kissing, Eating rats for religious reasons, Facial Scars, Fairytale elements, Henry makes questionable decisions, Ink Consumption, Ink Demon Nathan, Internalized Homophobia, Joey Drew being a Jerk, Joey Drew being a Sociopathic Asshole, Living Ink, Loss of Control, Loss of Limbs, Mental Breakdown, Miss Twisted is very gay for Alice, Nathan might be worse than Joey and that's honestly terrifying, Norman is a dad no matter what form he takes, Norman's great grandmother set the law in the household, Outing, Panic Attacks, Perfect Bendy Joey, Physical Abuse, Post-Studio AU, Post-War, Public Humiliation, Questionable Workplace Behavior, Ritualistic Murder, Sammy has severe memory issues, Sammy's father was a racist and a bigot, Siren Head because that's a thing that needed to show up I guess, Some of the Studio Workers are Homophobic Assholes, Some toon characters are jerks, Strange Sightings, The Cult of Bendy was Joey Drew's attempt to control the studio's downfall, The Ink Demon isn't evil, The Ink is highly addictive and sentient, Unexplainable Activities, Vampire AU, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting Blood, Weird Biology, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombie infection, coughing up blood, loss of hearing, love potion, prank gone wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 106,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25292998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TipsyEpsy/pseuds/TipsyEpsy
Summary: Series of BatIM/BatDS/BatDR drabbles and oneshots.Mostly canon compliant (Headcanon heavy).Some AU content.
Relationships: Sammy Lawrence/Norman Polk, Susie Campbell/Sammy Lawrence
Comments: 142
Kudos: 99





	1. Can't Say You Didn't Try

Henry had always been a kind, caring and charming individual. As a kid he’d been very friendly and understanding, as well as quick to offer a smile and extend a helpful hand to those who may need it ( _even those who did not deserve such patience_ ). Soft-spoken and a gentle soul, showing his true character through thoughtful actions, rather than gold-laced words.  
This had not changed as he grew up. Not when Joey spat in the face of their friendship with his tainted ambitions and selfishness, not when the war took his innocence away, and certainly not when he’d returned home a tired, shattered and scarred man.  
Yes even with all the hardships he’d had to contend with, Henry was still kind. Still so very willing to give.  
And he’d given, and given, and given some more… Until he simply could not.  
Because the victims of the studio were plentiful and he was just one man.  
He’d had to pick in the end. But that was much later, when the old veteran first found out the truth about the young wolf.  
Before that…Well…He’d tried to save the others in much earlier runs of this hellish unending cycle…

  
It started with the 5th run. Not the 1st, not the 2nd, not even the 3rd. Initially Henry had not considered mercy an option upon those who wished him harm.  
He’d been far too afraid and inexperienced, unable to see beyond the abominable monstrosity that was the ink’s tainted touch, so he’d not seen what lay beyond the twisted bodies of the studio’s ex-employees. Of people who suffered much more despair at the hands of Joey Drew.  
Then, on that fateful 5th run, everything changed when Sammy had hit him much harder than what he was meant to do. A hiccup in Joey’s script most likely, but one that left its mark, as Henry’s skull had cracked and he was nowhere near a great enough pool of ink to be pulled down and revived. He’d lay there, bleeding and dying and so very dazed, while the creature he’d dubbed the Prophet seemed to be released from it’s madness momentarily.  
For a few terrible and agonizing minutes, Sammy Lawrence had been of sound mind and had wailed hideously over the act he’d just commited. One to add to a long list of brutal killings for a merciless “god”.  
Joey cut the script completely, and Henry’s 5th run ended just as abruptly as the 6th run commenced. Now with two vital changes: **Sammy was no longer permitted to knock him out with a broken pipe, and Henry had carried the notion that the Prophet still had a shred of his former self somewhere in his inky abyss of a body.  
**So on the 6th run he tried to befriend Sammy. And on the 7th run. And the 8th. And then from the 9th to the 13th.  
Each attempt ending with varying results…  
Henry was either met with open hostility, accusations of false shepherding, or worse yet he’d manage to drag Sammy into an unstable state of lucidity. That was the worst case.  
Whereas Henry could deal with Sammy’s wrath over his abandonment of the studio ( _leaving him to rot under Joey’s iron grasp_ ), and the religious sermons concocted by his twisted ruined mind, Henry could not at all deal with the despair. Lucidity did not bring back the good old Sammy Lawrence.  
It shattered him further, until he was just a melting pussing pile of wailing goo. No better than the Searchers that gurgled along seeking souls to feed upon like leeches.  
Henry couldn’t bare see Sammy like this, so he’d given up on trying to bring him along.  
There was no fixing what Joey had done to the music director. At least not right now.  
It was best to just let him live his delusions until he could find a way.

  
The 14th run started out interestingly. He’d ignored Sammy’s “death” at the hands of his beloved lord and gone off to meet with Boris, who’s presence Henry had been indifferent to at first. The safehouse had been the only respite he’d gotten in the studio but with each run ending in Boris’s unavoidable demise it had left the animator feeling oddly despondent towards the toon wolf. Boris never seemed to notice or mind. He’d just enjoyed the company.  
But this run was not one where he’d focused on said wolf.  
No, this was the run where he’d tried to reach out to Susie. The first of 22 useless attempts.  
Like with Sammy he’d tried just about everything and it never went well…  
Alice Angel ( _or Malice Angel_ ) had too much of a grip on what remained of Susie Campbell and, unfortunately, Henry hadn’t known her when she was still human ( _and sane_ ) so he had no idea how to appease her. The audio logs could only give him so much information…  
Granted he’d gotten pretty close to success, closer than with Sammy even, but in the end there just wasn’t any way to deny it. Alice always consumed the remnants of Susie Campbell.  
Be it when they were ready to leave her lair, or when she finally lay eyes upon Boris once she finally met him in person.  
It was disheartening to see so much work and progress crumble before his own eyes.  
To save Susie was not possible as of yet. So, like with Sammy, Henry left her to live out her scripted delusions of grandeur.

  
The 37th run was an accident-riddled mess. Things kept getting strange, and obstacles kept on popping up at every turn. The script was unusually convoluted, like the twisted narrator was just too full of ideas to decide where he was taking his plot.  
It’s through Joey’s indecisiveness that Henry first discovers Norman’s second audio log in the Projectionist’s lair. He puts 2 and 2 together and realizes the thing he’d considered a horrid beast was actually another old friend… A friend who was now an amalgamation of ink and machine. One that lumbered huge and heavy, and with enough strength to crush his skull with one hand.  
The 37th run is the one where Henry makes the mistake of not running from the Projectionist. The shock of recognizing the kindly old Norman Polk as something so heinous and mindless is just too much. His heart, crimson red so bright against the colorless scape of the studio, becomes the monster’s centerpiece for the rest of this particular cycle.  
Whether or not the hollow feeling in the revived Henry’s chest is the lack of a heart or a painful anguish over his old friend’s fate is up for debate.  
Stubborn as he is, Henry tries to reach out to the Projectionist. For over 47 runs he’s eviscerated by the beast. His heart ripped out, his skull crushed, his limbs torn from his body, his spine shattered, his lungs full of ink as the monster holds him down in his inky pond…  
Then on the 48th run the Ink Demon doesn’t properly kill the Projectionist and leaves him in a pitiful heap…  
Henry is there to comfort Norman the best he can, holding the scalding hot Projector in his arms as if cradling a fallen comrad’s head in his lap. He’d done this before in the battlefield. It never got easy.  
The Projectionist whines and croaks out static as it loses strength, it’s body slowly melting away in the artist’s grasp, before it finally looks at him with a dim ink filled gaze. It’s broken speaker crackles as it utters the only word Henry has ever heard it try to say:  
_**"…kshssShhSshsshshHeeenssshhhryyyssh…”  
**_The 48th run is the last one where he tries to befriend what remains of Norman Polk. Henry simply has no more tears left to shed and his heart is well beyond broken for the souls trapped in this man-made hell.  
He’d rather their last moments not be filled with the despair he carries, so he lets them wonder and live out Joey’s twisted fantasy.  
Not knowing who they were and who he was, turned out to be the mercy they needed from him until the cycle was truly broken.

  
The 49th run was when he truly began to look towards Boris as his only choice of a temporary companion. And then he’d learned about him, pitied the kid the most out of everyone he’d encountered…  
Because Boris had been a kid with his whole life ahead of him before he was the wolf.   
As such, Henry instinctively clung on to what little innocence he could find in the studio, hoping to one day be able to save him.  
It was this sole focus that eventually led him to Allison and Tom, and the cycle carried on.  
Henry had tried.  
He’d failed, but he’d tried.  
Maybe one day he could finally save them all.


	2. A Soft Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his imposing size and general weirdness, Norman Polk had a very soft heart…

Growing up with a militaristic family had shaped Norman Polk into one of the most capable people to ever work at Joey Drew Studios. He had a variety of skill sets that could cover a lot of general tasks in the studio itself, from handyman to mechanic work, to a bit of plumbing and a lot of heavy lifting. On days he didn’t have anything to record, Norman would either find himself organizing the projector storage area, or carrying boxes full of reels, as well as lugging around those damn soup vending machines Drew had splurged large sums of money on ( _what a waste, he’d seen Grant’s notes, he felt for the poor accountant_ ).  
In the earlier days of the studio, when Henry was still around, he’d been akin to a godsend in Joey’s eyes. Cheap labour and little to no care about the workload.  
Now that he had a more set position he helped where he could when asked. Yet, for all his usefulness, everyone in the studio considered him to be a bit of a creep.  
Granted, he had done that to himself. His dear ma had always told him he had a bad habit of sticking his nose where he shouldn’t, and his older sister had flicked his ears whenever he’d snuck up on her to eevesdrop on her conversations with that boy from across the street she clearly fancied.  
“ _Quiet as a hunting jaguar and twice as observant_ ”, his pop would say with pride. His sisters all used to scoff and say he was just a snoop trying to get them in trouble.  
Of course he never told on any of them, because that wasn’t his intention. No, he simply had an insatiable curiosity that lead to him creeping about in the dark places, where none could see him.  
It was something that followed him into adulthood and into the studio.

  
Quiet as a mouse he got around and saw things. Things no one could even dream he knew about them. Like the contents of Grant’s locked filing cabinets, the bottle of whiskey Lacie hid in her toolbox, Thomas Connor’s favourite sandwich ( _peanut butter and jelly, cut in triangle shapes_ ), the conversations Susie had with herself in different voices to warm up for recordings, the rather interesting discussions between Jack and Sammy, Wally’s frustration with his memory issues, even the few times he’d caught sight of Bertrum Piedmont being less than appropriate in a workplace bathroom ( _for his age, Norman had to say the man had restraint and stamina to be able to fiddle with himself for so long unnoticed_ ). Info he could easily use to humiliate or even bribe a few people. But he wouldn’t of course… Despite his imposing size and general weirdness, Norman Polk had a very soft heart. One that could fit all these misfits.  
Which is why it physically hurt him when he noticed things changing. And not for the better either.

  
The studio was a mess from day one due to Joey clearly having poor management skills. Things tended to go a little haywire at times, and throwing money at something until it worked didn’t solve anything in the end. When the war propaganda started popping up, stuff got way worse. More than half the staff enlisted, leaving Joey to hire women to cover for his losses. And god did Joey Drew _hate_ women.  
Norman had been repulsed by all the things he caught his boss saying and doing in the presence of the female staff. The looks of discomfort and masked anger left a bitter taste in his mouth and he cursed his own sneakiness for leaving him without a reasonable way to tell him off for it. How could he know if he wasn’t in the room to witness it? How could he just come out and say he was in the walls watching his peers like some creep?  
The few who caught on to him observing them often looked at him in disgust. An entire studio of angry women turned against him wouldn’t do his sanity no good.  
Conflicted mind aside, the new hires weren’t the only changes. The few who remained weren’t doing any better. If anything there was a decline in behavioral patterns due to an influx of work.  
Grant became quieter, more anxious. He saw less of the man on lunch breaks and found him chugging coffee in his office just mumbling numbers to himself like his life depended on it.  
Wally’s hostility towards Thomas was escalating to the point he’d dragged Shawn Flynn into the mess. A stolen tool belt, a match of the blame game, and an irate Irishman were not good things.  
Susie had been replaced, and her subsequent upset at losing a spot she’d adored was affecting her side character voice work. She also acted outright hostile towards the replacement and to Sammy of all people.  
Speaking of which, both Sammy and Jack looked tired and had constant migraines from working with the band all day. While he saw little of Jack, he noted that Sammy was behaving in a rather aggressive manner to anyone who so much as inconvenienced him ( _Buddy had only been trying to be nice and immediately he’d gotten Sammy’s full fury on day one of knowing him).  
_ Lacie was murmuring paranoid mambo jumbo about that one creepy bendy robot thing moving and watching her ( _he’d never seen it do such a thing, and he’d spent a good part of a morning staring at it_ ).  
Bertrum’s mood had darkened after an argument with Joey, and even the damn dancer they’d hired a month or so ago was going about hiding stuff behind _toilets_. If that wasn’t disgusting Norman didn’t know what was… Some of these people lacked the decency to clean after themselves so there was no way he’d take a peek himself.  
The studio was, for a lack of better words, becoming a bit of a circus act.  
So really, it shouldn’t have surprised him when he’d stumbled upon an alarming sight in Drew’s office.

  
There was a particular vent that lead to a nice and big crawlspace between the ceiling of Joey’s office and the floor of the room above. Norman liked to eat lunch there, nice and quiet and with a vantage point to look down at Joey’s desk, where he’d be writing the most pitiful letters to his investors.  
It was fun to watch the bastard degrade himself when he often degraded those around them instead. That day Norman had expected to find just that, not Joey holding Sammy by the neck and squeezing it tight while the poor music director squirmed uselessly in his grasp.  
Naturally he’d frozen in shock, staring through the crack he used to observe his less than favourite protagonist, watching the scene unfolding like something out of them novels his wife liked to read. Murder mystery stuff.  
Joey Drew was choking the life out of one of his first employees, while hissing the most cruel and deplorable things imaginable. Once in a while he’d release his grasp when Sammy’s face would start turning a horrid shade of blue, then continue to choke him and verbally assault him once the guy reinflated his lungs. The process carried on for at least five minutes before Norman could take no more.  
Food abandoned to the mice, he crawled all the way back out and made his way to Drew’s office. He slammed his fist on the door before opening it, refusing to wait for an answer.  
Joey had released Sammy in the time it took for Norman to get out and back. The blond just barely composing himself while Joey played the part of a saintly boss, sitting behind his desk with a calm and peacefully look on his face.  
“Is everything alright, Mr. Polk?” The devil of a man asked, with that false sweet tone he used when addressing his more naive employees. Sammy refused to look at anyone, instead fixing the creases on his shirt and pinning his loosened hair into a messy ponytail.  
Caught red-handed, Norman didn’t know what to say. Thankfully Wally was a saving grace in that respect.  
“FIRE IN THE BAND ROOM! THE DANG PROJECTOR EXPLODED!”  
“The music sheets!” Sammy practically shoved past them both to run to the aid of the few pieces that had survived any encounters with the faulty ink pipes. Wally followed, leaving Norman to stare at Joey.  
The look in Drew’s eyes told him he knew perfectly well why Norman had come here.  
“Best be less obvious about your hobbies Mr. Polk…”  
“Why Mr. Drew, I haven’t a faintest clue what yous is on about… Just comin’ ta tell ya the projector was no good no more.”  
“Right… The projector. Hopefully the projectionist doesn’t end up the same. There’s only so much a soft heart can take, hm?” The implications of his words were a little unsettling, but thus far Drew was more bark than talk.  
“Resortin’ to threats now, are we? Can ya really afford ta lose anyone else?” Not to mention it’d be odd to just let him go after years of working at the studio. People would ask questions.  
“If I could afford to lose the best damn artist this studio ever saw, I can definitely afford to lose a nosy projectionist.” He meant those words. He really did. Norman could sense the malice behind them. So he hit back harder.  
“Henry did the right thing leavin’ your sorry ass behind.”  
  


He got out as soon as the paperweight flew his way. He’d definitely pay for that later, but it felt good to at least spare Sammy from Joey’s wrath.  
Soft heart and all that… A soft heart that would inevitable have an axe buried in it, brandished by the very same person he’d been trying to help.  
Life didn’t much care for soft people, it seemed.


	3. A Conversation Over A Broken Nose (Vampire AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immortality kinda sucked when it came with conditions such as drinking blood to survive, or needing to be invited into a building to be able to pass it’s threshold. But one couldn’t deny the perks of being a pretty face.  
> Such as having someone to reset your nose to keep it pretty...

Joey Drew Studios was known for hiring people of immeasurable talent. The founder, Joey Drew himself, only wanted the best of the best to crank out quality animations after all, so it made sense to hire this generation’s greatest writers, artists, musicians and the likes. What the public did not know about the studio, was that more than half the staff were not human.  
Joey Drew was, after all, fascinated with the supernatural and the occult. It made sense to hire both to give a more ‘authentic’ feel to the little devil darling’s cartoons.  
Norman wasn’t one of these unique hires. He was a run-of-the-mill good old human, the studio’s projectionist, and watcher of a department run by a vampire.   
Not that one would look at Sammy and outright notice his true nature.  
There was nothing remotely dark and foreboding about the music director. He was a mess of dirty blond curls, sharp and perpetually tired looking hazel eyes, and a sour disposition that could curdled milk. There was nothing in that lanky man’s demeanor that inspired any clue of those vampiric traits most people tended to romanticize.  
The extremely attractive looks that bewitched people, the charming politeness of a Victorian butler, the conniving nature of a predator.  
Sammy wasn’t ugly, but he sure wasn’t conventionally attractive. Handsome yes, but Norman felt like that honker of a nose could poke someone’s eye out. His manners were also lacking, as the musician tended to be bluntly honest rather than hold his tongue.   
The projectionist would be bold and even go so far as to say the “kid” wasn’t too smart, as he tended to get up in everyone’s face expecting them to back off.  
It’s how he often found himself in this particular situation...  
  
“For a vampire you sure do love replacin’ blood don’t ya?” He held a rag to Sammy’s broken nose and grimaced at the syrupy blacked liquid pouring out.  
“Shud ub…” If he didn’t look embarrassed limping all the way up to Norman’s booth, Sammy sure did now that he was being called out for his mistake. “Dhomash ish a dick…”  
“And you’re a dang fool for mouthin’ off like that.” Norman snorted. “Was only fair he got his message across.”  
“By breaging my noshe?!” Sammy sounded indignant.  
“Put ya in yer place didn’t it?” Norman finished cleaning Sammy’s face before carefully grabbing his nose. “This gonna smart.”  
“Jush do it–OUCH!”  
“There. That’s yer nose set.” He put away the soiled rag and proceeded to unbottom his collar. “Try not to leave a mark this time, my wife ain’t buying the whole, 'donating blood to my vampire coworker’ thing no more.”  
“Tell her you’re not my type.”  
“Well why the hell not?!”  
“That eye is a turn off.”  
“Why, ya rude little country boy! I have half a mind ta flick ya behind those batty ears a yours.”  
  
Rather than answering, Sammy took the offered share of blood to mend his wounds.   
Then off they went on their separate ways.   
Business as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a NormanXSammy vampire AU request that I turned into a platonic mini ficlet because I find the theme too stale on the romantic front, so why not go for friendship instead?


	4. Curiosity Killed the Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only a matter of time before Norman’s curiosity got him deader than that one silly cat…   
> No good deed goes unpunished it seemed, especially when it involves Joey Drew's brand of Ink.

“Somethin’ ain’t right ‘bout the studio.” Is the one sentence that precedes a series of catastrophic events in Norman Polk’s life. A combination of letters that form a very simple and inconsequential phrase that still held a lot of negative connotation. Easy to dismiss, especially over breakfast as he reads the paper with a bored expression on his face.  
His wife sits in front of him, buttering their youngest child’s toast while the eldest daughter fetches a glass of juice for herself, and her brother, the second oldest child, glances up to peer over and then around the paper.  
“What do ya mean pa?” Aaron’s inquisitive eyes catch his one good eye, and Norman finds himself setting the paper aside and picking up his mug. Out of his five children, Aaron is the one to inherit his father’s curiosity.  
“Just a thought.” He takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs “Things been a little _weird_ as of late.”  
“How do you mean?”  
“Aaron don’t go listenin’ to your pa’s nonsense or ya gonna get stuck with his ramblings. You gotta get ready for school, so eat breakfast and get going.” Margarite rebuts, before glancing at their two daughters. “That goes for you both as well, you especially Louise, your teacher’s been hasslin’ me bout you doin’ no work.”  
“Mrs. Wilson is nuts. She picks on me for no reason, the crusty egg!”  
“Louise!”

Aaron pouted, clearly unsatisfied with the lack of a response, but thought better than to go against his mother’s wishes. Wise kid. Norman was proud he was growing up smart.  
He didn’t bring it up again until the kids were sorted and off to classes. His wife gives him a long-suffering sigh before crossing her arms and looking at him in the eye.

“Don’t go lookin’ for trouble Norman. I know ya got the guts to go findin’ nothin’ good.” She pleads with him.  
“I don’t go lookin’ for no trouble Maggie, just curious is all… And things **have** been weird. It’s gettin’ to the others…”  
“Norman, you do know what them people say 'bout your sorta curiosity don’t ya?”  
“And what would that be?”  
“Curiosity killed the cat. And ya sure are lookin’ real cat-like to me…”

* * *

Joey Drew had plans, that much Norman knew. It all had to do with that weird machine of his, as well as all those brittle pipes that kept bursting and flooding areas with thick glossy and acrid smelling ink.  
What plans, Norman couldn’t tell ( _yet_ ), but the consequences were visible. Structural integrity in the studio was a mess, something Thomas Connor often dreaded about due to his impeccable work ethics.  
Things were constantly soiled with ink, and cleaning supply expenses had risen to the point Wally was having to lug in bleach and detergents from home to get stuff cleaned up. Everyone’s dry-cleaning bills had likely also suffered with this.  
Speaking of, everyone was going crazy.  
“I tell ya, meltdown of the century.” Wally winced on the rare occasion Norman took the time to sit with others to eat lunch. That day he was sitting with Wally, Buddy and Dot. “Thought Miss Campbell was gonna throttle the poor broad!”  
“She has been acting very hostile.” Dot winced in sympathy. “Miss Pendle has the patience of a saint if she can bare all that, but she’s not the only person Susie has blown up on recently.”  
“Uh?” Buddy looked over at his friend in surprise. Norman too looked curious. Wally snapped his fingers as he realized what she was on about.  
“Oh yeah! The other night right? She went and barged into Sammy’s office and things got heated, and not in the good way if ya know what I mean.”  
“Wait really? Miss Campbell yelled him?” Buddy looked to be in disbelief. He couldn’t imagine a petit little lady like Susie yelling at that overgrown peacock of a man. Not when Sammy tended to yell back at people with twice the amount of ferocity.  
“Didn’t just yell. She tore him a new one! Was so bad I got outta there as fast as I could. Didn’t wanna witness no crime a’ passion and all that.” Wally glanced around, hoping neither Susie nor Sammy were around to hear. “Saw him come outta the office much later when I was about ta lock up for the night. He looked… Rough.”  
“He always looks rough.” Buddy commented. Norman found himself frowning at that.  
Now that he mentioned it, Sammy had been looking a little green around the gills. Like he was sick, or at the very least extremely sleep deprived. With Drew’s policy of time being money, and illnesses having to be serious for sick leave, it didn’t surprise him that Sammy might have caught a bug and been unable to sleep it off at home.  
“Speak a’ the devil…” Wally ducked his head and quickly scarfed up the remains of his meal before getting back up and moving off. “Here he comes now.”  
Buddy and Dot followed his example, not feeling particularly keen on getting yelled at by Sammy. Norman let them go, eating his meal at a leisurely pace as he observed Sammy more carefully. He didn’t just look rough. He looked off.  
How exactly, Norman couldn’t explain, but it certainly must be something if the hairs on the back of his neck were so fast to raise.  
He needed to look into it.

* * *

It’s a particularly bad encounter in one of the men’s bathrooms that tips Norman off to what might be wrong. After that particularly bad scene involving Drew, Norman had been more cautious with his wandering and observing.   
His boss’s behaviour raised questions, and his threats were definitely ringing alarm bells in his head. How it all involved that wretched machine Norman couldn’t figure out.  
Until, while putting his burnt hand under cold water ( _another projector went and caught fire because ink had gotten in it somehow_ ), Sammy Lawrence suddenly barged in and practically kicked in a stall door to then double over a toilet bowl and violently vomit the contents of his stomach.  
All this happened in very few seconds and Norman found himself with his unburnt hand clutching at his chest in fright.  
“Jesus Christ, ya nearly went and scared the soul out of my body!” He closed the tap and pulled the first aid kit closer, setting to work on bandaging his injured hand. Bless the doc for giving him a kit in the first place, after so many incidents with projectors.  
He waited for Sammy to bark out some sarcastic retort, but instead was met with more retching and coughs. Norman became concerned when it didn’t stop.  
“Sammy?”  
He peered into the open stall and was met with a smell that shouldn’t be coming from someone’s insides. An acrid chemical smell that permeated the studio, due to its origin being pumped through pipes like blood in one’s veins. The music director was puking _ink_.  
“Sweet mercy…” That wasn’t good. The boy needed that stuff out, which he was managing on his own from how much he was getting sick. The issue was, how much of the crap had he swallowed if it kept coming up? “Sammy what the fuck?!”  
“G'way y'fu'kin’ …” He cut off as another wave came up to meet the rest, his nose dribbling with the black sheen of ink, and big fat tears barely clearing the gunk already covering his pale skin “H'hurts…”  
The pathetic whimper was enough to break his heart. Sammy sounded scared for once, rather than angry, sarcastic or apathetic.  
“How much did ya even get in ya? Did the music department go under again?” Once the music director didn’t look like he was going to throw up again, the projectionist scooped him off the floor and noted with horror how unusually light and pointy the blond felt in his arms.  
It was like holding a sack of bones… What in the blazes? Just a few days ago he looked healthy enough…  
“M'gettin’ ya to the infermary. The doc might have somethin’ for intoxication… If not then Drew can’t just keep ya here, this is a hospital thing.”  
“N-no… No doctors…” Sammy struggled weakly but gave up once he realized he couldn’t squirm out of Norman’s grasp. “M'fine…”  
“Boy, I have half a mind ta call the doctor myself if ya go sayin’ stupid shit like that. You ain’t fine.”  
“J-just stomach ache… It’ll go away…”  
“Samuel Lawrence you are a dumbass.” How daft did the kid need to be to not see the issue here? Hopefully the resident doctor could convince Drew to let Sammy go to a hospital.   
Hard to fake getting a toxic liquid in your system after all…

* * *

After the encounter in the bathroom it’s not long before Sammy goes missing. People start speculating about it, and some are rather mean-spirited about it. Sure Sammy wasn’t the kindest person, but going about saying he ran off with his tail between his legs because Susie dumped him was just plain disrespectful ( _especially considering he hadn’t seen Susie around as of late either_ ). The stories about him drinking ink tho… Those peak his interest. They are also easy to confirm, as Norman looks in horror at the contents of the drawers in Sammy’s office. Empty ink wells. Several of them. Some definitely licked clean.  
It explains things Norman wished he hadn’t overlooked. The machine, the pipes, the slow descent… The ink was what was wrong with the studio.  
Norman realized then and there that he needed to warn the others to get out. Whomever would hear him at least.  
Starting with Buddy and Dot. Those kids needed out.  
Whatever Drew was planning with that hellish stuff, it couldn’t be good for them.

* * *

Once the authorities’ investigations are closed up and the studio opened back up again, Norman decides it’s time to finally grab his light and go down and see what the groaning was. He eats breakfast with his family as quiet as a mouse, lost in thoughts, then goes to work after kissing his wife goodbye.  
Once he reaches the door, he finds a card and keys on the entrance mat.  
Wally had quit. Good, at least the kid had enough sense to bolt when told to.  
Norman is the very first person the set foot back inside the studio.  
As such, he’s the very first target for one of two creatures still able to access the floors above.  
His light catches onto an inky black figure in overalls and a grinning dancing devil mask, then catches the gleam of a blade.  
Norman doesn’t get the chance to scream as the axe buried itself in his chest, right through his heart. He wheezes out what little air remains in his lungs and it doesn’t take long for him to slip away.  
What makes it worse is how the figure cradles him gently and murmurs nonsense he can’t understand. That voice… Why did it sound so familiar?  
It all goes dark. It’s too quiet.

* * *

The Projectionist screeches as it runs after the figure in overalls and grinning mask. It chases after the thief mercilessly, putting it’s hands through the holes it crawls through in an attempt to flee from its burning gaze.  
It gets cocky and ends up getting grabbed by the leg and pulled back with force.  
The Projectionist may not be able to hear its screams, but it can feel the vibrations. It’s terrified.  
Good.  
It roars in triumph as it plunges it’s hand through the figure’s chest, bursting it into a puddle and discarded clothing.  
Never shall it try to steal it’s hearts away, ever again.  
The Projectionist carried on, unaware of the poetic justice behind its own actions.  
An eye for an eye was just as popular a saying as curiosity killed the cat, after all.


	5. Musings of Two Survivors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Studio had a way of twisting who you considered a friend, or even a lover, into something cold and cruel…

There’s a sense of finality approaching with every bit of scrap that he can get his cartoony gloved hands upon. Like something grand is approaching the more he adds to the disturbing collage he’s steadily worked up into a mockery of what he’d once been, what he’d become, and what he was still to be.   
Fact of the matter was that Daniel Lewek was fading.   
Not terribly fast, but enough so that he could notice his control slowly slipping away from his grasp.   
In turn, Boris was becoming more conscious.   
More self aware and active in their moments of respite, and less willing to move forward into these lonesome and terrifying jogs in and out of Wally’s abandoned safehouse that he’d taken up residency in.  
He couldn’t blame the poor toon for his hesitance, as Buddy was just as terrified of what the studio and its employees had morphed into.

Joey Drew had essentially upended reality with that ghastly machine of his. Played god and reshaped the world around him to fulfil a sick fantasy of a dream that had been unrealistic and unreacheable. People Buddy had once called friends or cordial coworkers were now either horrific inky abominations, weeping skeletal husks, or one of several carcasses he’d come across.   
For Boris it was much worse, the wolf’s terror blinding Buddy countless times as they traversed the horrors that hid not only danger but also a bountiful stockpile of useful trinkets and ( _bleh_ ) stale bacon soup.  
Worse yet, there were threats much worse than wailing Searchers, desperate Lost Ones, or those really messed up Butcher Gang clones.  
Some horrors more contained than others.  
The Ink Demon was the worst of these threats, as it had free roam of the studio, but the inky horror’s terrifying aura was beyond any explanation Buddy could articulate. It activated his flight response on sight alone, if not before an actual sighting even.  
It was instinctive terror one couldn’t hope to understand, much less a young boy trapped within the mind and body of a cartoon wolf.  
Other terrors included the deranged Prophet, aka Sammy Lawrence. The once-music director had been consumed by the corruption of the ink from the inside out, making someone already inherently hostile all the much worse. Where he’d once been merely rude and loud, now he was an ax wielding murderer with no qualms in cutting you down for his “lord”, or for stealing his offerings to said entity.  
Then there was the manipulative angel who’s voice he recognized as Susie Campbell’s. Whatever had been done to her had left her as nothing if not a hollow mask of Joey’s imperfect dream. A girl playing a part that would never fit her again, not after it had twisted her into such a figure of malice.  
And finally…There was the one that really hurt Buddy the most to think about…

If there was anything in the studio that Buddy hated in particular, it was the Projectionist’s many roosts. The rooms that had thick congealed ink all around, serving almost like the silky strands of a massive spider’s web. A means to communicate vibrations to the deafened creature that stalked the halls with sharp cries and a sharper eye.  
Oh, how Buddy hated the acrid smell of the ink, and the beating sound of the hearts that attracted Boris so easily like flies to honey.   
Attracted him like they did everything else that so much as caught a whiff of their scent.  
The ink hearts.   
So alluring.   
So full of life.   
So full of soul…   
All beings of the ink craved them, and the Projectionist guarded them. The Projectionist…

Boris’s terror was suffocating as they hid behind a wall, waiting for the hulking beast to lose interest in the room they’d last been in. The circular patterns of its path were dizzying, especially with the blinking light of the projector it had for a head.  
The clicking noises of the clunky machine instilled a terror that most would consider ridiculous out of context.   
Who could ever be scared of a silly old projector? Well, someone who had one run at them while screeching like a bat out of hell.  
It didn’t help that Norman Polk had been built as if he was raised pulling locomotives with his bare hands. 6’11 and muscular enough to put a bull to shame. Buddy had wondered why such a man took up such a delicate job rather than join the army, or work as security, or heck even do construction?   
He was beefy enough. But then he’d gotten to know the man and, looking past the obvious eccentricities, he was actually quite soft spoken and a gentle giant most of the time. So seeing the absolute monster he’d become was a personal stab to the heart.  
The Projectionist lacked Norman Polk’s caring personality and instead sought to kill anything that so much as got in its sights.  
It was a cold and mindless beast that destroyed rather than repair. It was an insult to Norman’s memory, and so very hard to face.  
Luckily, he never had to. Buddy just had to bide his time, sneak around, grab what he’d come for and run for the elevator.  
Each time he ascended, he couldn’t help cry into his hands as the brute roared up at the elevator shaft, not a hint of recognition to find.  
He missed his friend’s kindness.

* * *

Leaving his domain was never an option the Prophet enjoyed. But supplies tended to run out quickly when you had a village full of Searchers and Lost Ones to feed. So, despite his many reservations over leaving such a rich place of worship, the Prophet tightened his suspenders, put on his boots, grabbed his torch, and valiantly strolled around the halls in search of soup, candles and what not...  
When doing so, he always did his best to avoid his Lord’s sight.   
Because, until he was proven worthy enough for the Ink Demon’s gaze to fall upon him, he would instead hide in shadows and traverse the portals.  
The brilliant brute was also to be avoided, as it had a taste for destroying rather than allying itself to a worthy cause.   
A mindless animal that would burn for its sins in the end.   
Those horrific little gremlins were also another annoyance to be avoided, although he took great joy in mocking them for their stupidity. It was quite fun!  
Yes, the Prophet traversed the halls well and outside the gaze of most…But…Even a shepherd of the masses couldn’t be without his own sin...   
His was wandering, especially when something familiar caught his eye or, in this case, his ear.

That sound…  
That melody…  
That voice…

The Prophet is gone for a moment, replaced by Sammy Lawrence, as he comes to a conclusion on what he’s hearing.  
His beautiful muse, his Susiebell, was out there all alone…Humming the song he’d so lovingly composed for a role only fit for such a queen.  
All instinct and survival skills he’d learned as the Prophet were lost to nostalgia and blind adoration for the girl who’d captured his heart.  
Susie sang, Sammy followed. What he found was not Susie.   
Not anymore.

The twisted angel catches the side of his face behind the mask just before he jumps through another portal into salvation. Sammy is lost again, the Prophet reawakened through fear and rebuttal for following false idols. The pain on his face a punishment fit for his crime.  
The angel is a farce.   
A symbol of evil.   
He shall not be fooled again.  
Bendy is the one true saviour and never again shall the Prophet wander, path astray.  
So tragic it was, then, that this was the millionth time their paths had crossed…   
The Prophet might lie to himself all he wanted, but Sammy would never deny where his heart truly belonged.  
In the palm of a fallen angel that would rather consume it, than give him forgiveness for the crimes of another much more sinister man…  
Such was life in the studio.  
They’d carry on repeating a cyclical life until the puppeteer found his oh so coveted grand finale.  
Nothing more than rotting twisted puppets filling out a role, just like in life.  
The Prophet may not understand this notion, memories so jumbled he barely made sense of his own words most days, but perhaps wandering might be the least of his concerns.

But the melody…Oh yes that sweet melody...  
He had to follow it… Again and again… The cycle would just never end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon on Tumblr requested a supply run fic, so I wrote two very different runs based on two experiences I had in Boris and the Dark Survival!


	6. Dating Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy Lawrence has a date with Susie Campbell on Saturday night, but no dating experience to speak of and a lot of self-esteem issues. Norman ends up intervening after Sammy becomes a nervous wreck all week, by taking the kid out on a test date to show him there’s nothing to fret about.

"I don’t get what the big deal is.“ Wally brings up during their lunch break on Monday. "The spark is there. They talk all the time. They look like an outfit already, so what’s got him all wet?”  
Norman shrugs as he watches Sammy try to disappear into his own shirt and coat like a spooked turtle, while Jack gave him a few reassuring pats on the back and tried to coax him into eating his ( _by now cold_ ) bowl of bacon soup. The blond had been in that position for at least 15 minutes.  
“Ain’t like it’s that big a thing. Miss Campbell just invited him ta go out to them dance club things.” Wally took a large bite out of his sandwich. “Them Speakeasies are full of snobby music folk, he should be thrilled ta go meet his own kind and get ta hear music that ain’t by his own hand.”  
“Maybe the kid’s a dead hoofer.” Norman pointed out. “Can’t really imagine Sammy Lawrence breaking lose in a clip joint.”  
“A real cement mixer.” Wally agreed. “Poor Miss Campbell.”  
“Hey now, don’t be so harsh.” Norman snorted “There’s more to a date than the hop. Like ya said, there’s magic between them. Ain’t no bad rag gonna mess that up.”  
“Uh-huh… Tell that ta him.” Wally pointed back to Sammy and Jack, the latter which had given up on trying to console his friend and was now instead trying to finish his own food.  
The music director looked a mess. Date night nerves really didn’t look good on anyone, especially not when said date was five days away from now.  
Hopefully he’d go back to being his ornery grouchy self in no time.

* * *

By Thursday everyone had about enough of Sammy’s anxious disposition. He hadn’t bounced back at all and was instead so nervous with anticipation for what he claimed would be a world class disaster of a date, that even Wally was beginning to turn sour with frustration.  
“I feel like how my ma was feeling when my pa got a lawsuit for vandalizing property…” The janitor bemoaned as he emptied the bin in Norman’s booth.  
“And what’s that?” The projectionist asked as he watched the violinist slowly wrap his hands around the neck of his instrument while watching Sammy pace with a dark irritated look. Half the band were becoming agitated from their conductor’s agitation.  
“Let’s just say my pa got a few knocks on the noggin for being a real fink.” Wally sighed “Look at me… I’m becomin’ the new Sammy Lawrence! Ta new studio grouch!”  
“That’s sayin’ somethin’ alright…”  
“If no one does anything, someone’s bound ta pounce on him and maul him! I would. Jack ain’t even bothering any more!” Wally turned to stare at Norman with a despairing look. “ _He broke Jack with anxiety!_ ”  
“Yeah… It’s certainly becomin’ a real problem. Someone gots to help the boy somehow…” Norman agreed that it was becoming an issue. If Sammy didn’t stop fretting he wouldn’t make it till Saturday.  
“Glad ya offered, I knew I could trust ya!” Wally grinned as he picked up the trash bag and his broom and dustpan.  
“Wait, what?”  
“Good luck Norman!” Wally rushed off to toss the bags, unaware of his keyring popping loose and ending up in the floor of the projectionist’s booth.  
Norman merely sighed, picked up the keys, twirled them with his index finger and wondered what he’d just gotten himself into.

* * *

“Lock up your office and get presentable.” He didn’t even bother to knock, smiling slightly as he watched Sammy practically jump out of his skin.  
“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Sammy turned to face him, that familiar angry look on his face and hand clutching his chest.  
“Come on Lawrence, I’m takin’ yous somewhere nice.”  
“…. What?” The music director furrowed his brow in confusion.  
“Ya heard me, now come on. Ain’t got all night.” He grabbed the younger man by the arm and hurriedly helped him get his coat on and his keys in his pocket, before practically dragging him along and out of the studio.  
“What the fuck are you doing?!”  
“Kidnappin’ you and sellin’ you on the black market. What do ya think Sammy?” Norman rolled his good eye. “Ya been grindin’ on everyone’s gears so bad that I wouldn’t be surprised if ya ended up in a Chicago overcoat by Saturday!”  
“A Chicago– I haven’t been so bad that people would want to _kill_ _me_ , Polk!” The blond actually sounded like himself. That was good, he needed to loosen up some if this plan were to work.  
“Even Wally wants ta knock your lights out. Trust me, yous been a real jelly bean this week.” That shut him up, a pout on his face. Sadly this was Sammy Lawrence so the silent walk didn’t stay silent for long.  
“What are you doing then, dragging me off like this? I’ve got places to be.”  
“No ya don’t. Last I checked your sister’s stayin’ at my brother’s to have one of ‘em sleepovers with my little niece and nephew.” Norman smirked.  
“Do you always put that big nose of yours into everyone’s business?” Sammy glared.  
“You’re one to talk with a beak like that.” He shrugged off the insult, ignoring the way the blond put a hand to his own nose self-consciously. “I’m doin’ ya, and everyone else, a favour by takin’ ya out for dinner.”  
“……. W-what?”  
“Nothin’ fancy. Just this really cute diner I frequent once a week when I feel like treatin’ myself. They got some good food.”  
“Norman that’s… I can’t. We _cannot_ go out for dinner!”  
“And why not?”  
“For one, you’re married! I’m not some home wrecker… And uh, I’m not… I’m not one of those…” The projectionist paused to stare at the music director. “You know… I’m not…”  
“If ya so much as say a slur I’ll be takin’ ya to the hospital instead.”  
“I’m not gay! There! Happy?!”  
“Takin’ a guy out ain’t gotta be gay, you damn pill. I’m tryin’ ta help ya out with your actual date!”  
“How?!”  
“For one, sortin’ out them nerves!” Norman crossed his arms and stared the blond down. “What’s got your knickers all bunched up? You like Miss Campbell don’t ya?”  
“Of course I do!”  
“Then what’s got ya so scared ta commit?”  
“Have you _met_ me?! There’s only so much I can do or say before she realizes she could do better!” What started out as an angry remark slowly became the most self deprecating thing Norman had ever heard Sammy say about himself. “I may be able to work a pretty tune, but I can’t exactly pretty up my own attitude…”  
“Who said anythin’ bout prettyin’ it up? You can’t mask trash Lawrence.”  
“Hey!”  
“But ya can recycle and improve what’s salvageable…” He continued. “If ya feel like you ain’t the best person because you don’t like your own attitude, then try ta change it for the better. Yous is a talented hard workin’ kid. You can definitely make yourself less of a twit.”  
“…You mean that?”  
“Yeah, I don’t go lyin’ ta people. Now come on, let’s work out them datin’ issues over dinner. I am kinda hungry and it’ll help get some practice in.”  
“…. I guess I could eat.”

* * *

Sammy gets home close to midnight. He spent an entire evening with Norman slowly working out the issue with his nerves.  
Between idle work conversation, discussions of interests, and then a few attempts at fluid flirting ( _which started of as one hell of a derailed train until he could slowly rework it into a slightly functioning locomotive_ ), things kinda slotted into place.  
Complimenting someone he’d worked with for a while came… Surprisingly easy. And Sammy wasn’t a words guy, so that was saying a lot!  
They’d gone for a walk around the block and then in the park afterwards, just talking and enjoying themselves, and then ended the night with Norman walking him to his apartment and then going off to his own home.  
Now on his own, feeling less anxious about what was to come on Saturday night, Sammy found himself with a newer issue.  
He might have just fallen in love with a married man.  
“Oh no…”  
  
Oh no indeed…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one very specific user on Tumblr who's been racking up a lot of SammyXNorman requests.  
> I provide as I see fit, considering my headcanons, but I won't deny I ship NormanXSammyXSusie :3c


	7. That Devil Drew Would Split a Pair in Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rather messy breakup that Sammy had hardly any time to process just yet, Joey Drew makes matters worse by exploiting two emotionally compromised people. Norman finds himself unable to keep his promises.

Times like these were getting rarer and rarer, as Norman barely found himself without any overtime anymore. Not with Joey Drew descending further into madness thanks to his poor life choices and zero management skills. So really, he should be enjoying listening to his brother reciting the usual instructions of what to do or who to call in an emergency, or what the kids were or not allowed to eat.  
But really, he was tired and wanted to sit in that comfy recliner where he usually spent a good part of an hour reading a book, while his niece and nephew behaved like the little angels they were. It wasn’t like he already didn’t know what to do anyway, he was a father himself, plus the two were 16 and 15 respectively. They could be left alone, instead of being mothered by their father.  
“Alfred, it’ll be just fine. Now you run along and gets some work done.” He practically shooed his younger brother away, smirking at the rather comical expression on his face. “They is well behaved, no need ta baby ‘em.”  
“They’ve got their friend over, so don’t go thinkin’ I don’t gotta worry! That brother o’ hers is freaky scary for a scrawny cockerel of a man.” He made a show of clearing his ears. “Nearly dang blew ma hearin’ out b'fore ta curse did!”  
“Sammy gots that effect on everyone. Just don’t go callin’ him a cock ta his face. Then I’ll be ta one ta finally lose my hearin’!” Not that his hearing range hadn’t begun taking a hit. A mixture of the hereditary defect and being subjected to hours of loud music, shrill instrument tuning sessions, and the constant droning of the projectors. He was lucky to not be completely deaf by now.  
“Yeah yeah, I’m off now. Nelson, Lydia! You two behave now for ya uncle Norman! And be good hosts to Abigail, no runnin’ about gettin’ messy up there!”  
“Yes sir!” The two called in unison from upstairs.

As soon as Alfred was out the door, Norman found himself in the living room falling back into the welcoming embrace of the recliner. He swore he might take it up to his apartment one of these days, just not when he was too tired to clamber up to the last floor dragging a massive piece of furniture with him.  
Two sets of quiet footsteps on old creaky wood immediately informed he wasn’t alone anymore.  
“And what are yous up to now?” He glanced over the backrest and smiled at the three teens that had been plotting to catch him by surprise. “Couldn’t hear ya this time Nelson. Remembered the creaky ones?”  
“I practiced.” Nelson smiled, sticking his tongue out at his sister, who huffed in annoyance.  
“I don’t like being sneaky anyway…” She grumbles. Beside her Abby chuckles but it doesn’t reach her eyes which is… Odd. She’s a pretty happy kid in general so its definitely strange for her.  
But, sure enough, watching her fiddle with that doll of hers that’s not quite Bendy, not quite Boris, she seems concerned about something. Fidgety with unrest.  
“Somethin’ on your mind Abigail?” He prompts. Both his niece and nephew seem to know what’s up as they give her a pleading look when she goes to deny it. The girl frowns then nods slowly.  
“My brother’s been very upset. I think it’s because his lady friend isn’t with him anymore…” She hugged her doll close. Still so very attached to it that she was only comforted by having it with her at all times “He didn’t say this, but I know it’s gotta be that, because he never complains when he’s tired or aching, but now he just looks…Sad.”  
“That so?” It was Norman’s turn to frown. Yes, Sammy had been considerably worse since his and Susie’s rather confusing and messy breakup. The two had gone from happy excited couple, to a pair of hostile angry messes. But the worst wasn’t even the lashing out, it was the obvious sadness the two felt at the unresolved issues they practically avoided.  
Jack had related to him his worries that the stress and personal blow would tip Sammy over at any moment.  
Wally had in turn said that Susie was acting weirder and weirder and it was honestly _scaring_ him.  
Because of course those two lovebirds were so repressed they couldn’t even deal with their own emotional baggage. It could only get worse if they ignored it, and it clearly had an impact on others.  
Specifically, and right before his eyes, on Sammy’s sweet little sister who was fretting over her brother. That wouldn’t do.  
“It don’t surprise me none. Their argument got real ugly… I don’t think they wanted ta break it off, but they is both very…Err…” How to say it without sounding crude to a young lady? His ma would murder him if he resorted to cursing in front of a teenager.  
“Dumbasses?”  
“Lydia!” Nelson elbowed his sister on the ribs, getting a punch to the arm in return. “Don’t gotta be rude about it!”  
“But I’m right!”  
“You ain’t wrong, but ya shouldn’t be rude 'bout it Lydy.” Norman sighed. He looked back at Abigail. “No offense, but your brother kinda is a dumbass 'bout what he feels.”  
“Sad but true.” Abby nodded with an amused look. “I think he doesn’t want people to know he’s actually very sensitive. My old nanny, Mrs. Harrison, said it was because our daddy taught him all sorts of backwards things about how he had to act. It’s a little strange to me.”  
“Bless ya for knowin’ better than ta not be honest 'bout what ya feel then. Can’t do no good pretendin’ bad things don’t bother ya.”  
Nelson made a face and glanced at Abigail but said nothing.  
“Either way… If it’s botherin’ ya, I could always talk ta Sammy. Might do him good ta vent about it ta someone who’s in no position’ ta judge.”  
“You’d do that Mr. Polk?” Abby smiled up at him. This girl was melting his heart like butter out in the sun, bless the heavens for at least giving Sammy one little ray of sunshine in his life.  
“Sure would. Now let’s go prepare somethin’ ta bite. Yous got classes in the mornin’ and I got work.”

* * *

He’d missed something big the previous night, that Norman could tell from the moment he stepped foot into the studio. For one, Sammy was nowhere to be seen, and the band was a disarray of gossip. Then there was also the lack of Miss Campbell’s presence, with some murmuring she may have finally gotten fired after pushing the wrong set of buttons. And then there were the worried looks on Jack and Wally’s faces that greeted him in his booth.  
“What in ta name a’ heaven happened this time?” He sounded exasperated.  
“Joey took Susie out for dinner.” Wally replied.  
“Sammy found out and confronted him.” Jack added. “Drew… Said something along the lines of… Norman it was bad.”  
“How bad?” Norman’s skin was crawling with anticipation. What happened and how bad?  
“Sammy drank a whole bottle of whiskey and went apeshit, is how bad.” Wally replied. “It was like looking a rabid wolf in ta eye Norman! If that weren’t no psychotic break I don’t know what is, but fuck!”  
“He broke stuff, screamed, he strangled Whitaker the cellist… Johnny wants to file a restraining order… Norman I don’t trust one word out of Drew’s mouth. What he said couldn’t be true…”  
“What did Joey say?!” His blood was boiling at the thought of that devil purposefully setting off the music director for leverage. It was honestly something he’d do.  
“That he’s been banging miss Campbell since day one? Bangin’ her harder than the drummers can drum a tune… Behind Sammy’s back no less. All talk, miss Campbell ain’t like that sort!”  
“And Joey isn’t into women. That lying bastard is antagonizing his own workers like we were… Like puppets on a string.” Jack shuddered. “And last night he cut Sammy’s strings off just to let him fall and flail. I don’t know what to do…”  
“… Have ya tried askin’ Susie ta dispell what he said?”  
“That’s just the problem… Sammy never left work, just ran off to hide wherever it is he goes. But Susie left and never came back.” Jack explained.  
“I even went and called her landline, but she ain’t answerin’. Like she got outta the country or somethin’…”  
  
Norman bit his lip, closing his eyes and mulling over what to do as he felt his bad eye swivel around beneath his eyelid. The only part of him allowed to run around in circles from this madness.  
He had a feeling his promise to Abby about talking to Sammy to sort his feelings wasn’t going to be so easy to keep. Not when Drew was back to pulling his tricks.  
But at least it couldn’t get any worse, right?  
Wishful thinking on his part…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request that had Susie cheat on Sammy, but since I didn't see Susie as the cheating kind I ended up doing something worse that I found more fitting.  
> Joey Drew is still the worst!


	8. No-Relationships Policy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before things go to hell, Shawn and Grant have a little discussion over whether or not Sammy and Norman are a thing. Meanwhile Joey Drew is a petty jerk hellbent on destroying relationships, even if the people he’s trying to separate aren’t technically in one just yet...

“There’s no way.” The accountant states as he and his current ‘lunch buddy’ observe what can only be the oddest sight of them all: Sammy Lawrence eating lunch at the same table as Wally Franks and Norman Polk.  
“Well why the hell not?! If ya look at 'em ya can see the spark in t'ol peepers. The way they go from bein’ professional schmucks to a couple a’ spanners like that no good muppet, Franks…” Shawn countered as he watched Norman snort at something Wally said that got Sammy’s feathers ruffled.  
“Can you honestly look Norman in the eye?” Grant asked in disbelief.  
“Well, one o’ them. The other acts like it’s been on a lash.” The Irishman smirked at Grant’s displeased glare. “Ya ain’t gonna give me crap fer sayin’ Polk’s crazy eye is nothin’ ta gawk at are ya?”  
“It’s rude to point it out, especially like that!” The taller of the two huffed. “Even if it uh, yeah even if it acts like it’s drunk and just spins about the room like it’s watching everything…”  
“We’re gettin'off topic.”

Grant looked back towards the trio’s table, watching Norman pat Sammy on the back, hand lingering for longer than it should, while Wally guffawed uncontrollably. Such an obnoxious sound over lunch.  
“I don’t see it. Norman’s too old for Sammy anyway, and I’m pretty sure he and Susie are an item.” He’d seen the music director and voice actress together enough times that it couldn’t be just work related. “A serious one.”  
“If ya think t’ prissy bogger is only into feeks then ya be wronger than bacon in a can.” Shawn shook his head. “Sammy’s definitely not just into boxes.”  
“Shawn!”  
“We’re both adults, we can talk 'bout vaginas ya flute!” The shorter of the two said in a much louder tone than he should have.  
“Why the fuck are you both talking about vaginas during lunch?!” Sammy’s shout caught everyone’s attention and Grant found himself redder in the face than that one time his mother spanked him in public for getting a B on his report card.  
"Mind yer own business ya dang bird!“ Shawn yelled back, which sparked a lot of yelling between the music director and the toymaker. Grant wanted to slowly melt into the floor just to get out of the spotlight.  
"Will the both of yous stop hollerin’ 'bout how much ya like a good cunt?! Some of us are tryin’ ta eat!” Norman shouted over all the ruckus.  
“What have I walked into?!”

Everyone looked towards the door in horror at the sight of Joey Drew himself, who was holding onto a can of piping hot bacon soup in one hand, and holding a book in the other.  
The seconds trickled by as Joey inspected everyone before sighing.  
“You know what, I do not want to know…” He took a sip of his soup, turned the other way, and promptly left the break room to eat in his office. Everyone just kinda went back to their previous conversations after that, not wanting to get caught yelling about the female reproductive organ by someone that may take more offense.  
“I still say they’re a thing.” Shawn stated, insistent on his opinion that Sammy and Norman were secretly dating.  
“I highly doubt it… But they definitely want each other, that much is obvious.” Grant relented, now seeing what Shawn had been saying about the two.  
There was definitely a spark of interest between the two.

* * *

While not a fan of his parents’s method of achieving their goals, Joey had to at least respect the Drew family saying: _“Dream big, or dream nothing at all”_.  
A motivator to get what you wanted in life, no matter how absurd or unreachable it seemed.  
So when Joey lost Henry it really didn’t sit right with him. Henry Stein was his after all, so who did that pretty little bimbo, Linda, think she was to just waltz into their lives and steal the object of his affections away like Joey’s wants and needs didn’t matter?  
Worse yet, Henry had gone with her willingly. Not only betraying Joey, but abandoning the studio. Their shared dream.  
That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do one bit!  
Love was a cruel folly, one he refused to stand for any longer. Not when his heart had been ripped to shreds… So how dare these fools attempt to _**date**_ in _**his**_ studio, right beneath his nose?!

_**Why should they get to be happy?!** _

Time to get back some control. The dream wouldn’t work if the cogs of this corporate machine were lead astray by the woes of the heart after all!

* * *

Everyone sat on a series of chairs set up in the music department, baffled as to why Joey Drew had called them to meet for… What was this? A seminar? A PSA? Not even Norman was sure and he was in his booth staring at the reel he was given to showcase. It was a clunky one.  
Joey himself had taken Sammy’s usual spot where he conducted the band to speak up whatever announcement he had in store.  
“Anyone else have a weird feeling this is going to be weird?” Sammy glanced at Jack and some of the musicians. Whitaker, the cellist, shrugged uneasily before looking at the other string players who murmured amongst themselves in agreement. Even Johnny and Susie looked uneasy, and they were often pretty much rays of sunshine.  
“Can’t be worse than the last time Joey had an announcement…” Jack reassured as he looked around at everyone present.  
Several departments crammed into one room like sardines in a can. Wally was sitting on the stairs leading up to Norman’s booth and offered a quick wave. Jack waved back.  
“Alright everyone! I’ve called you all for a reason, and a very important one at that.” Joey called out over the buzz of the crowd. Several gazes met his own while he motioned for Norman to start playing the reel, which he dutifully did. “It’s come to my attention that several of you, I won’t say names, have been a little distracted with… Side affairs outside of the studio’s workload.”  
  
Everyone’s attention snapped to the images being presented behind Joey, at first looking like stills of people going about their business in the studio. Then the subject matter became… Clearer. It focused on specific people being friendly. Or, in Joey’s eyes, overly friendly…  
Several faces became tinted with red hot shame as they saw themselves exposed in a rather accusatory fashion. Whitaker immediately covered his face with his hands as a rather big close-up of himself and Vernon, an artist from the art department, popped up suddenly. They were being a bit more intimate than a pair of pals, and some people were whispering and snickering about it. Jack stared in absolute horror as several same sex couples he knew of were being outed to their coworkers in a humiliating fashion.  
“As your boss, you should all know I do not approve of such lack of professionalism on your part.” Joey continued, unaware of the glare of disgust Norman was shooting him from up on the booth. “Pursuing such relationships within the studio is, therefore, prohibited for the sake of keeping things running smoothly.”  
“Holy shit is that Sammy and Norman out on a date?!” One of the writing department workers shouted over the crowd.  
Sammy’s face turned beet red when he recognized the small diner Norman had taken him to for practice. Where had that photo come from?! They’d been alone!  
Norman too was staring at it, completely baffled as to it’s existence. Where had Drew gotten that from?  
“I told ya Sammy was a fucking homo! And a sleazy one too, leading miss Campbell on like that! What a greaseball!”  
“And that Polk ain’t any better either. Fucking creep is into younger guys, gross!”  
Jack bit his lip in horror as Sammy stood up and pointed at the accuser before Susie could pull him back down.  
“WHO THE FUCK YOU CALLING A HOMO, YOU PIECE OF SHIT?!”  
“You! You prissy fairy!” The speaker stood up in response. It was all the prompting Sammy needed for the situation to escalate.  
The first punch flew and then chaos descended upon the crowd, with Susie screaming in alarm.  
Norman bolted down the booth and began shoving his way through the crowd to help Jack and several band members rip Sammy away from the offending jackass.  
All while Joey watched in satisfaction.  
His work here was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two requests centered around the same theme that I decided to post as one big thing to round it off properly.


	9. Tight Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slip up while covering for Wally gets both Norman and Sammy in a rather interesting position.

Wally had taken sick leave ( _which thankfully had been immediately approved considering his arm was bending backwards when he’d gone to request it_ ), so Joey had decided to assign Norman with janitorial work, since he was currently not needed in the projection booth ( _there weren’t any recordings to work on for at least three weeks so he’d mostly been repairing projectors or catching up on his reading_ ).  
This alone didn’t bother him much, since cleaning the studio gave him ample reason to be in places he rarely had an excuse to be in. So really picking up Wally’s tasks was no trouble at all.  
The problem came in the form of pipework maintenance…  
“Pressure rises, I loosen the bolts.” He recited back to a satisfied looking Thomas, who nodded slowly.  
“Getting it faster than Franks at least.” The GENT worker crossed his arms. “Drew could of assigned you to me rather than that kid.”  
“N'aw, Wally ain’t that bad. Kid’s just unmotivated…” Norman shrugged “And Joey don’t want no more reasons for me ta go movin’ ‘bout outside my booth.”  
“Something I should worry about?” Thomas asked as he looked him up and down. Trying to gauge him, the clever man.  
“Depends if yous is hidin’ somethin’…” He smirked at the uneasy look. “Joey sure is, and he don’t like people who is clever enough ta figure he ain’t all smiles and dreams.”  
“Right…” Thomas shrugged him off and looks to the pipes once more. “That’s the pressure gauge and bolts. Another thing you have to do is check the pipes for erosion. If the structural integrity gives in, we’re looking at a burst pipe or a disastrous leak. This stuff seeps into wood easy and could rot it to hell, causing a lot more trouble than it’s worth.”  
“So ya want me to grab a light and look at pipes. Seems easy.” Norman shrugs.  
“Ya make it sound hard.”  
“It is if you’re not Frank’s size. He’s stout sure, but that kid moves around the pipes like a greased up weasel.”  
“Sounds 'bout right. I’ll be careful.”

He was not careful, which is how he’d ended up with his hips jammed between two interwoven pipelines like a particularly fat fly trapped in a spider’s web.  
“Great…” He tried to pull himself out to no avail. The music department had claimed another victim without even subjecting him to an inky shower. He wasn’t sure if that was better or not.  
At least he was alone.  
Or he was, as he could hear someone opening a door.  
There went his pride…  
“Norman?”  
“Sammy?” Sure enough, looking over his shoulder, there was the music director himself staring at him in bewilderment.  
“How?”  
“I ain’t exactly as small an’ nimble as Wally…”  
“Wally is nimble?”  
“Just help me out wouldja?” He struggled again to no avail. “These two pipes sure ain’t gonna be a bother to ya, they is sturdy.”  
“Unlike everything else in this shitty department.” He watched the blond set his stuff down and move over to help him out. Pulling didn’t do much however, other than elicit a grunt of pain when the pressure around his hips increased. “You’re really stuck in there.”  
“I hadn’t noticed…”  
“Don’t need to snark… Hm, maybe if I come through the other side and pull you back…”

* * *

Susie walked in twenty minutes after Sammy’s arrival, and the look of shock and then amusement on her face only made both their faces burn with embarrassment.  
“Having fun?” She asked with a little devilish grin upon her freckled face.  
“Yes, because my definition of fun is being wedged between pipes, practically stradling a grown man!” Sammy grumbled.  
“Susie fer ta love of all that is holy, please get Thomas before anyone else sees us like this!” Norman pleaded, clearly not having that good of a time in his position.  
“Aw, but I’m loving this view! Gotta say, you look good with my boyfriend on top of you, Norman!” Susie giggled.  
“Susiebell please!” Sammy was pleading as well now. “The band will be here at 09:00!”  
“Alright, you boys stay here while I go get the nice GENT fellow~” Both groaned as she sauntered off with a playful skip in her step.  
“Wally should get a raise…”  
“Tell that to Drew. If he won’t give the department directors one, there’s no way in hell the janitor is getting anything.” Sammy huffed in annoyance.  
“True… Do gotta admit somethin’ tho…” Norman looked at him up and down with a slight smirk. “Susie ain’t lying when she said ya look good on top 'a me.”  
At the flush of Sammy’s cheeks Norman couldn’t help laugh.  
Being careful was overrated anyway.


	10. They Say The Eyes Are The Window To The Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman remembers some old stories his Great Nanna used to tell him about Great Poppop Polk, and how fitting they are in this particular situation.  
> Sammy was weird in many ways, but this?   
> This was just crazy.

Back when Norman was still a little tot, his great nanna used to tell him and his brothers and sisters about their great poppop. How he’d been raised in some sort of cult that indoctrinated its disciples from birth. She related to them how, even though he’d managed to escape them, their constant drilling of ideals had never truly left him. Which was why nanna had gotten rid of him. Love him as she did, she knew he was a crazy dangerous man.  
Little five year old Norman had been very curious about those tales his mama begged nanna not to tell them. He especially found it curious when she described his eyes.  
Having a condition like the one he had, had made him a prime target for neighbourhood bullies that called him “Crazy-Eye”. So hearing about someone who had actual insanity behind what most considered to be the windows to the soul… It had given him a sort of relief, because at least there was a spark of life behind his own unsynchronized peepers.  
“N'aw child, don’t yous go be tellin’ ya mama ‘bout what ol’ nanna be tellin’ you 'bout ya poppop, ya hear?”  
“Ok nanna. Won’t tell a soul.”  
“Yous is a clever one, boy. An’ don’t forget ta keep an eye out… Crazy can hide in plain sight. Sure did for poppop.”  
Insanity could hide in plain sight. That was perhaps the most valuable lesson to take from his nanna’s tales. What she could never get across was how hard it was to see someone you cared for slowly be afflicted with it.

Sammy was a weird man. Had been from day one of Norman meeting him, and never quite changed even when he put a reign on his deplorable attitude.  
He wasn’t a bad person per say. Misguided by a parent with that typical southern brand of white superiority complex. A man who thought his skin color made him better than all the other folk, and who taught his boy to think it was just as sacred an idea as the damn gospel he also tried to drill into Sammy’s head.  
But Sammy was admittedly clever, and much more curious than his father had been. He asked questions and he tried to change when he realized his own crappy behaviour didn’t please him all that much.  
But then things started getting unsettling in the studio. Little things popped up, and the world’s own agenda got in the way of Joey Drew’s plans. Turns out Joey wasn’t about to fold for anything or anyone.  
Those who were drafted were the lucky ones. Those who were socially outcasts or liabilities in the military’s eyes, were not so lucky. They stayed, so the wrongness affected them.  
The wrongness… Norman had felt something was not right for a long while, but now that he had to get acquainted with so many new hires and the such?  
He’d been preoccupied. So when the ones he knew suddenly started acting unlike themselves he’d been caught by surprise.  
“I don’t understand how Mr. Drew has no trouble with him… He’s just so…” He’d found Buddy in the bathroom, trying to clean the obvious ink stains on his clothing. “Why did I think helping him would make him less nasty?”  
“Sammy tends ta blow up at minor things. If it was as bad as yous say it was, then he was just freaked out from nearly drowning.” He got as many paper towels as he could to help the poor kid get rid of as much of the ink as he could.  
“Doesn’t excuse what he says to me… Or the other Jewish employees…” Buddy murmured sadly.  
“What did he say?”  
“Not important… Just makes me uneasy. It’s like I’m specifically not worth anything just because of my… Mr. Polk?” Buddy blinked once the projectionist dropped everything he was doing to stalk out the door.  
“Yous ain’t the first he’s gone and played that card on. Was a long while ago but I can refresh Sammy’s memory for the folks he’s been barkin’ at.”  
“Oh! Uh, you don’t have to! It’s not going to fix anything.”  
“Trust me, a hard knock on the noggin’ works just fine ta sorte Sammy’s bullshit.” Norman smiled in passing at Dot who paused to watch him and then look at Buddy in concern once he peered out the bathroom door. “You two kids run along now. I’ll see yous around.”  
He tried not to laugh when he heard Buddy fretting over potentially getting fired for starting a fight. Kid still had a lot to learn about how Joey Drew Studios ran for all these years.  
Sometimes tough love was all it needed.  
But not this time.

His nanna’s tales rushed back to him when he’d cornered Sammy in his office. Norman didn’t like roughing people up, but he’d promised the music director that if he stepped on any toes for the wrong reasons he’d give him a whooping like the one the blond had been begging for, back when he’d first harassed the projectionist.  
He had half a mind to start hollering until he’d caught sight of Sammy’s eyes.  
Nanna had described insanity in great detail. The unfeeling and unfocused darkness in poppop’s eyes that consumed the man she’d loved and left nothing behind.  
Sammy’s eyes were a soft hazel, the nice flicker of green so full of the essence that made Sammy Lawrence who he was.  
What Norman saw instead of those pretty peepers were dark pools, a sickly grayish brown with flecks of blackness like tar. Like ink… Norman completely forgot what he was to say. He couldn’t bring himself to talk when he saw the same thing that had tormented his nanna’s dreams.  
It just wasn’t right.

* * *

Joey Drew was up to something, and Sammy was involved somehow. By his own volition, Norman wasn’t too sure.  
The kid was acting mighty strange since Norman had noticed his eyes had inexplicably changed color, and whatever progress for positive change he’d made was completely gone.  
If anything, Sammy had become an incredibly volatile and aggressive husk. Very few people noticed, which was what was so concerning.  
“It can’t be a coincidence… Joey barely showin’ his face 'round the departments and Sammy actin’ up like the devil bit him in the ass…” He’d paced as he watched Jack drink what was likely the 5th cup of coffee he’d in the morning.  
“Whatever it is, Sammy’s more enthusiastic about his songs for a change…” He sounded nonchalant about it. “He complained about all the pieces Drew forced him to change… Now he’s less, angry about those. Seems to love them actually.”  
“Those little annoying jigs? He said they was garbage!”  
“And they are. Putting lyrics to those was dang awful but… Well if he’s happy, I’m happy…” Jack gave a weak smile before coughing a rather wet sounding cough. He took another sip of his coffee to sooth his throat.  
“You comin’ down with somethin’?”  
“Must be… This gross cough has been popping up a lot. And my nose is awfully stuffy. Can’t smell or taste nothing, which is good considering I gotta hide away in the sewers to work…”  
Norman huffs. People were getting sick from being forced to do overtime with no rest. Jack getting sick wasn’t entirely out of the question. But the stench of something acrid coming from his mug did give him cause for concern.  
Best check to see if Wally hadn’t accidentally stored the coffee beans with the cleaning supplies again.  
A week later he forgets about it once he instead finds himself making a list of the people he stops seeing around the Studio not long after he noticed something up with Joey and Sammy.

There’s Jack, who he hadn’t noticed gone at first until he’d gone poking around the sewers and not caught sight of the shorter lyricist.  
There was Johnny Brokehart, who’s organ was completely abandoned in its little corner. No one dared touch it, in case the man returned and found so much as a pipe out of place.  
There was Julian Whitaker, the tall gangly cellist that often sat with the resident art critic, that Vernon fellow who liked to stare at the cartoon posters like they were masterpieces on display at a museum.  
Susie Campbell had gone too. Wally insisted she hadn’t quit, and was awfully worried about her. Allison and Thomas had also up and split after they’d made a scene at one of them fancy parties Joey used to get investors to dump money into his lap.  
Shawn Flynn, Grant Cohen, Bertrum Piedmont, Lacie Benton, Emma LaMonte… People were vanishing left and right and there was no say of them being fired.  
Norman had a theory, and he didn’t like it one bit. He tried to do his best to inform the younger hires to run before something inevitably happened to them.  
He told Buddy and Dot it was dangerous, in as little words he could so not to let Joey catch wind of what he did know. He prayed to whatever god was out there that no bad befell those two kids.  
And then he’d grabbed his light and went down, where the groaning and moaning came from.

* * *

Norman ran. Ran as fast as he could, trying not to look at the _things_ trapped in those tubes. The creatures that were tall, gangly, and vaguely humanoid. Weeping faces pressed to the glass, begging to be let out.  
The disgusting sludge creatures, barely holding themselves together and clawing at the glass in obvious suffering.  
The thing that had Sammy’s voice and that was rushing after him, axe in hand and Bendy mask covering its face. Screaming at him to accept the “Lord’s” blessing.  
He ran and dodged strikes that nicked his elbows, his legs, grazed his ankle and back… He came to a full stop before what could only be described as a throne. Horrified to find _something_ twisted that looked like a humanoid corpse-like Bendy bound in chains. And then he was knocked onto the floor, air escaping his lungs from the sudden collision.  
The Sammy thing was on top of him, overjoyed to have caught him.  
And then all around, Joey Drew’s voice filled the room…  
The thing on the throne shook and hissed.  
“Excellent… You know what to do Prophet. Baptize this non-believer in the name of your lord.”  
“Anything for you my lord. Anything!” Norman tried to fight him off, knocked that silly mask off his face even. Except there was no face. Not even eyes.  
Windows to the soul… If he had none, then did Sammy even have a soul anymore?  
The axe raised, and Norman Polk didn’t even have time to scream before it plunged into his chest, destroyed his ribcage, and obliterated his heart.


	11. Almost Out (Canon Divergent AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy’s sudden decline in health saves both him and Norman from something much more sinister than they could ever imagine. Sadly one's fate isn't so easily avoided.

In another world, Norman Polk makes the mistake of ignoring the glaring signs that something is terribly wrong with Joey Drew Studios. In this one… He gets luckier.  
The butterfly effect could be attributed to this somewhat fortunate turn of events, as the split second decision to look for something he misplaced is what leads him to witness Sammy throwing up just outside of the men’s bathroom nearest to the music department. Had he let it be for another night, he’d be none the wiser to the severity of Sammy’s condition.  
Norman wasn’t sure then how the cranky music director ingested the ink. Assumed, even, that it had been another near death experience that involved burst pipes and flooding. So he’d acted purely on instinct and taken the poor kid to the hospital.  
“He’s lucky to be alive. The amount of ink in his system would have been enough to kill at least three men.” The doctor told him, equal parts fascinated and horrified with the case he’d been presented with. “I’m not sure how none of his organs have shut down from the toxicity levels, but I’ve got to say Mr. Lawrence is a resilient man.”  
“A pain in ta neck too… Had he called for help he likely wouldn’t be in this state…” Norman had assumed it was Sammy’s pride that kept him from calling out from what he was sure was just another ink flood in his department. How wrong he was. “I is gonna have ta call my brother ta see if his poor sister is at his. Can’t imagine she ain’t worried sick ‘bout what’s takin’ him so long ta get home.”  
“You may use the reception phone to call his family, yes. I’ll have a nurse get you if he wakes up.”  
Sammy didn’t wake up. Not that night at least… That would only happen the next night, and by then Norman would be busy with something else that would definitely boggle his mind.

* * *

“Yous is sure Drew ain’t said a hush o’ a whisper 'bout what’s goin’ on?” Norman frowned as he talked on the phone with Wally. He’d gotten up that morning barely having slept after returning home from the hospital, only to discover the studio was closed down and under police investigation.  
“Nothin’! Whatever happened he’s keeping it real quiet… But get this: Several people in the studio up and vanished!” Wally exclaimed. “Into thin air, like it was a magic show!”  
“Vanished…?” Norman frowned, sounding incredulous at the vague statement. “What does that mean exactly Wally?”  
“What ya think it means pal. Gone. No clue how or why, just the when.” The janitor sighed. “Bunch a good folks too… Miss Campbell, Shawn, Grant, that Piedmont fellow and Mrs. Benton…”  
Wally paused for a second, as if to figure out who else had apparently gone from under everyone’s nose.  
“Oh! Couple a’ band members gone… Jack and Mel too, which Joey sounded real sad 'bout cuzz ya know… Mel gives the Butcher Gang that real voice magic o’ his…” Wally dragged on before coming to stop at the two people Norman most dreaded hearing about. “Buddy and Dot, and like half 'a the art department…”  
“That’s 36 people gone. How in the hell did a group o’ folks just up an’ go without none seein’?!”  
“I don’t know Norman!” Wally sounded honestly freaked out. “I’m pissing my briefs just thinking something awful’s gone and happened to them! But Joey insists everything is gonna be ok and… I donno, that just don’t sit well with me…”  
“Sure don’t… Sounds mighty awful suspicious that he’d be so calm considerin’ a ton of his employees went and pulled a Houdini act…” Norman hissed into the phone as he looked out the window. Something about this situation was getting him real paranoid all of a sudden.  
“Eh… Wait, didn’t that there Houdini fellow die during his own act…?”  
“As a matter o’ fact, yes. He did.” Norman swore he saw someone retreating down his street. Something fishy was going on. And Joey Drew obviously knew more than he let on.  
“Gosh… I think it’s finally time t'a really get outta the studio.”  
“I’d say so kid.” He pulled the curtains closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to think. “I’ll call ya later Wally. I’m gonna go and check on Sammy at the hospital. You gimme the low down if ya find out anymore o’ this scam.”  
“Got it Norms. Good luck with Sammy, he’s probably gonna be real grumpy 'bout nearly dying again!”

* * *

Grumpy did not described the state of mania Sammy seemed to wake up in. Later that night the blond music director had suddenly jolted up and awake and the absolute nonsense he was spouting was worrying to say the least.  
If Norman wasn’t already so bamboozled by what was going on with the studio, he might look mortified at the scene the other was making.  
In fact, Norman was too busy shielding Sammy’s sister from the absolutely insane tirade he was going on to really care…  
_**“YOU DONT UNDERSTAND! HE NEEDS ME! I NEED TO GO BACK! LET ME GO BACK!”**_ Sammy Lawrence was a tall man, but he wasn’t particularly strong. A beanpole that was sharp bony angles and unconventionally handsome looks.  
The man currently fighting off three doctors trying to jab him with syringes full of sedatives was not even flinching when he was shoved. Norman had never seen such insanity in one person’s eyes, and frankly he could barely recognize his coworker as he was.  
The way his curly long hair framed his face almost made his eyes look darker than they should be. Like inky pools.  
He could only guess what Abigail must be feeling, even as he tried his best to keep her from witnessing what was likely her brother having some sort of long overdue psychotic break.  
“WOULD SOMEONE SEDATE HIM ALREADY BEFORE HE GOES AN’ HURTS SOMEONE?!” The projectionist hollered over the screams, just surprising Sammy enough that one needle could find its mark.  
A minute or so later, the blond flopped back down into the bed he’d been laying on. Quiet as a sleeping mouse.  
Norman held the poor weeping Abigail Lawrence even as they were pushed out of the room.

* * *

15 years later, Norman Polk found himself reviewing the last couple of years of his life. He’d abandoned a previous career path to help fix whatever horrors Drew’s brand of ink had done to Sammy.  
The blond had been treated for all sorts of things, none of the treatments seeming to work whatsoever in his time playing the role of a sickly lab rat. Only time seemed to have some kind of positive effect, and even still the damage was noticeable.  
Abby had gone to live with Norman’s brother and his niece and nephew, with the ex-projectionist himself popping in every so often to help where he could. His brother was short on money so he did odd-jobs here and there to help. Norman’s own kids were well off as it were so he didn’t need to worry too much about how much he spent looking after the others.  
In the time that the investigation had come and gone, Joey Drew Studios had closed for good. None of the missing folk ever returning. In fact, Norman knew for sure more people were going missing…  
  
As of today things were… Quiet. Too quiet really, considering how turbulent it had been.  
Sammy was out under his younger sister’s custody, labelled some sort of invalid because his head wasn’t working too good ( _a lie, as Norman caught him in his more lucid moments and knew how frustrated and trapped the once-music director felt about his situation that he couldn’t even explain_ ). He wasn’t nearly as outspoken and ornery as he used to be. All sense of pride vanishing and being replaced with this deep dark shame over something out of his control.  
Less wordy and more tired looks and vague gestures. His eloquence and motor skills had also suffered greatly from having consumed a toxic liquid that inexplicably caused enough damage to ruin his independence, but not enough to damage many major organs or bodily functions.  
Norman visited and played chess of all things, to keep him company. The blond seemed to appreciate it, but his interest was on what Norman did nowadays.  
He was a private investigator.  
His main case? Joey Drew Studios.  
And tomorrow he was getting answers from none other than Joey Drew himself, as the man had reached out to him in quite the compelling letter…  
It was about the right time to go back to the old studio and find out what had happened the night he and Sammy left.


	12. Brothers in Arms (Canon Divergent AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War had given them a clearer perspective of just how dark and dreary the world truly was. So honestly when they’d gone back to the studio with Henry, they shouldn’t have been surprised that Joey Drew was a vindictive creature underneath that deceptive smile of his.

All things considered, being drafted hadn’t been the worst thing to happen to them. Sure, the military was no place for a man of the arts or someone with a tendency to wander, but Sammy had been raised in a farm before moving to the city and Norman’s father had been a soldier.  
They weren’t strangers to waking up early and pulling their weight. Sammy having had to help his father clean the animal pens and lug around heavy bags of feed, and Norman being forced to run drills in the wee hours of the morning in case he ever found himself in a bad situation.  
One positive was they were in relatively better shape than when they’d still been working at the studio. Another was that they ended up in the same platoon as Henry.  
None of this erased the horrors of the battlefield though.  
When they’d finally gone home and begun the reintegration process, it had been… Difficult.

Henry had been mildly disfigured in an explosion, the left side of his face a grim reminder of what he’d had to endure as it seemed frozen in an ugly droopy smirk. Norman’s hearing had gone completely thanks to all the gunshots, years earlier than his doctors had estimated, and his bad eye had been gauged out by an enemy soldier in a knife fight, so he’d been gifted an eyepatch to cover it up. Sammy had lost his left arm, and his right hand had lost its pinky. Lucky sniper shots that had obliterated his ligaments, and basically obliterated his finger.  
They weren’t intact, but they were alive. And going back to the normalcy of civilian life was hell on their traumatized minds.  
No one really gave a rat’s ass about veterans, not as much as they claimed anyway. They’d gotten counseling, Sammy had been fitted with prosthetics, and they were expected to carry on as if they hadn’t been trained and set loose like glorified attack dogs.  
Thankfully they had each other and their families to rely on. That bond did wonders for them.  
So imagine their surprise when one day, all three received a letter from one Joey Drew.

* * *

“I knew I should have followed my gut feeling…” Sammy sneered as he stared at the seeing tool in his hand. By the 414th run, they’d all realized they each had one and that they’d been doing this song and dance for far too long.  
They were trapped, with no conceivable way of getting out. Because there just was no satisfying Joey Drew. The man was a goddamn perfectionist of the worst kind.  
“You’ve been saying that for the last 10 loops.” Henry pointed out as he balanced carefully on Norman’s shoulders, reaching for a can of bacon soup in a very high shelf. “At this point I’m starting to think you’re just cranky from being hungry.”  
“I’m not hungry! And I’m not cranky!” Sammy huffed angrily as he looked around. The messages on the wall still unsettled him whenever he read them. He couldn’t recognize the handwriting. That’s what bothered him the most.  
“Sure are Sam.” Norman smiled, having long since learned to read lips. He was in no position to sign however, so he was speaking up for once, that southern drawl of his still comforting to hear despite the rarity of having a fully vocal conversation these days. “Yous been bumpin’ gums cuzz your feathers are all ruffled like one o’ them birds a paradise.”  
“Why does everyone keep comparing me to a bird?!” Sammy looked at Norman in disbelief.  
“It’s the nose.” Henry chuckled. “And the way you move…”  
“You do this… This thing where yous crane your neck and look ‘round an’ 'bout all quick like.” Norman said, tapping his chin thoughtfully before grabbing onto Henry’s leg when he began to shake too much. “My Nanna had a parrot that did that too.”  
“You’re comparing me to an old lady’s parrot?! How dare you!”  
  
Before the music director could get any more agitated he paused when he heard something fall in the next room. They hadn’t quite left the music department yet ( _not until Sammy could mourn it for the millionth time_ ), so movement this early was odd. Henry also found it strange.  
“Looks like things might be changing up this run.” Henry noted as Norman helped him down.  
“Great… I hate surprises.” Sammy sighed, tapping the prosthetic pinkie he’d been fitted with against his fake arm. The sharp little notes were somewhat soothing to him. He’d not lost his musical talents despite being unable to play as beautifully as before.  
Practice and patience,his sister often reminded him.  
“What don’t you hate?” Norman snorted, making the blond man pause in consideration.  
“Chocolate.” He noted. “And your face sometimes.”  
“Awww…”  
“Guys, you can be sweet and flirt later. Let’s see what’s up ahead of us this time.” Henry reminded them (or at least Sammy) as he approached the door.  
“If we’re lucky, permanent death!”  
“What an optimist yous turned out ta be Sammy!” Norman rolled his eye after reading that particularly “chipper” suggestion. He quickly signed at him to cheer up a bit instead of souring the mood.  
_[Someone’s got to be a realist]_ Sammy opted to sign at him so that Henry wouldn’t tell him off for it. Best not test an artist’s patience when anxieties were high. Especially when they’d be facing potential nightmare fuel unlike anything they could ever imagine. Because really, the world was messed up and people were out there killing each other, but at least you knew what to expect of a bunch of people with guns, knives and explosives.  
This voodoo witchcraft shit Joey had gotten into to get revenge on them? This was new territory and honestly the most vindictively ludicrous thing they could ever expect out of that devil Drew.

* * *

Joey sighed, dissatisfied with yet another attempt to finish the story. It just never came out **right**. Their chemistry was good for slapstick comedy, and separating them gave the plot some good drama and angst, but overall he never quite found the proper ending his carefully crafted storyline required.  
Changing things up also did little to nothing.  
He’d given them so many good companions and plot points too… Buddy Boris, Alice Angel, Tom Wolf and Allison Angel, even a few restored Searchers and Lost Ones whenever he felt Sammy might need someone from his department to break out the guilt of his past unpleasantness…  
 **It just wasn’t good enough. It never was!**

A knock on the door brought him out of it. Now… Who could that be at this hour?  
Turning his wheelchair around and moving out of his study and towards the entrance door, Joey was faced with someone he didn’t at all expect to see.  
“Nathan? Nathan Arch?”  
“Joey Drew… My good friend…” The toothy smile leering down at him gave Joey a strange uneasy feeling. “We need to talk about something most… Interesting.”  
  
His perfect ending would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short request in which Sammy and Norman are drafted together instead of staying at the studio.  
> Naturally I had to involve Henry and then throw them back into that hellish studio together!


	13. You Reap What You Sow, Good Results Or Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A silly little prank causes Grant to suffer a massive panic attack during lunch, to which help comes from what most would consider an unlikely source.

Wally had a way of thinking that often got him into rather interesting situations. Mostly, he was completely impulse driven, with little to no attention for anything but the details that would lead to the end goal of whatever he was cooking up.  
Said end goals were never inherently malicious, but it was kind of hard to please everyone in a crowd and if at the end of the day no one got hurt that was fine by him!  
Even better, if it got a few laughs and boosted morale, it'd be well worth it!  
Call him callous in his need to act all you want, but never ever think him cruel for it.  
It was just in his nature to be a bit of a trickster.  
More so than that, it was in his nature to fret over others in his own way... So when he noticed that Grant was a constant pile of nerves, he'd just wanted to find a way to help the neurotic accountant out of his shell.  
Bring out some good laughs and ease off the tensions.  
He had no idea Grant had any medical conditions that made him susceptible to panic attacks when confronted with specific stressors or triggers.  
Turns out, loud noises were one such trigger.

It was a particularly sunny Monday, which honestly was just perfect for this sort of thing he had in mind. Most of the Joey Drew Studios employees were well rested after a weekend, especially after meeting another deadline, so Wally liked to start things off with a particular sort of bang.  
You know, to help the rest of the week be up to the imagination of these cartoon creators. Couldn't let things get too dull around a studio of this sort where the magic of animation happened now could he?  
Not when people needed fresh new ideas for hijinks the little devil darling could get up to!  
Wally hadn't yet caught sight of either Sammy or Joey, so he had a little bit more freedom to scope out the ideal vantage point for his little plan.  
Nothing too hard, one couldn't ignore the classics after all, just needed to right locale and all that fancy shmancy acous-whatever-majig that the band was often going about when they were preparing to record.  
The music department was a no go, as his intended target rarely found the need to go anywhere near Sammy's floor. Something about a budgeting error that had nearly made them both go mad like rabid stray dogs fighting over a box of donuts?  
The bathroom was also sacred land, as decreed by his grand-pappy when he was taught the ways of the Franks in prank-a-logical warfare.  
You did not prank a man when he had his pants down. That was the law.  
Naturally this left a few options, like Grant's office, Joey's office ( _if Wally felt like he wanted to die, which he didn't just yet_ ), and the breakroom.  
The latter was more appealing. A good laugh was to be shared.  
Wally loved sharing, and Grant might feel more at ease if he felt like he was in the company of work friends.  
How positively wrong Wally was.

With target location and method selected, the janitor merely needed to wait for the right time: Lunch break. A torturous wait as he had to disguise his anticipation with hard, muscle-pulling, work. Cleaning after some of these people was a pain in the neck!  
And don't even get him started on the bathrooms! God above, the bathrooms!  
How he loathed them. More than the soup vending machines that tended to leak when it was hot out.  
Hot stale bacon soup did not smell good, and a bucket full of maggoty soapy water was not a fun thing to look forward to when the summer heat came around.  
But that was a while away from now.  
Now was today, and today was the day he'd get Grant Cohen to laugh off those shakes of his.  
Except it wasn't.  
If anything, his ill-fated "brilliant plan" flopped from the moment it was conceived.  
Not many people knew this, but Grant had come from a highly abusive household. As a result of growing up in such a hostile environment, he'd grown up suffering from depression, anxiety disorders, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Ye the stuff that got soldiers all shellshocked after the great war.  
Grant had, as such, a few things he avoided to keep from getting panic attacks in public locations.  
One thing he avoided like the plague, were loud noises.  
So when Wally popped a paper bag right next to his ear, the accountant shut down completely.  
"WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!" Sammy screamed from his table when he saw the results of Wally's unintended mishap. Wally himself looked shocked and, frankly, quite scared when Grant dropped down and started hyperventilating, hands over his ears and a lost look in his eyes.  
Like suddenly he had no idea where he was, which was nothing short of the opposite he often presented. The image of a well put together fellow who despite his nervous demeanor, knew his way around the administration department.  
"Oh lord above..." Norman got up and moved over quickly, trying to shield Grant from the growing crowd of murmuring onlookers. Before he reached the fallen panicking man however, none other than the ever loud Shawn Flynn beat him to the chase.  
"Nothin' ta see here folks! Ya keep them peepers off this boyo!" The Irishman practically put himself between the gawking world and the hyperventilating accountant, daring anyone to so much as say a whisper of what had just transpired. "Go on then, off with ya! Eat yer manky beans and w'hot not! Don't be lettin' this gimp here go and hames yer lunches!"  
"I...G-Gimp?" Wally shrunk slightly when Shawn glared daggers at him.  
"Yes. Ya know...A muppet! A tool! Savage cat, gowl, spanner, mog, bóg, snake, gombeen, a fuck'in gobshite that alway makes things go arseways!" he got angrier the more he listed off terms Wally wasn't familiar with.  
At the confusion Sammy laughed.  
"He's calling you a spoony." He stated calmly "An awfully stupid one at that!"  
  
Wally gawked.

"I ain't no halfwit!" he protested, only to back off when Shawn growled as he crouched to help Grant.  
"Coulda fooled me, ya damn eejit!" he took Grant's hands and pried them away from his ears. "Ya poor buck, yer shakin like a little baby fawn. Come now...Remember them fancy breathin' exercises ya told me just about!"  
Grant whimpered, taking shallow breaths while the Irishman attempted to ground him.  
"Not like that! You're going to lamp yourself like that...Here... Count. Yer good with numbers, come on."  
  
Wally watched the two, by that point everyone else having lost interest and gone back to their meals, Sammy included.  
Norman moved over still, this time to grab Wally by the arm and pull him away.  
"I was just..." Norman stared him in the eye with a rather stern look, making him clamp his mouth shut. The bigger of the two shook his head and simply pulled Wally out of the break room where he could finally talk. "I just wanted to help..."  
"Not everyone wants your brand of help Wally." Norman stated calmly. A palpable sadness in his good eye. "Don't go assuming everyone's ok with yous playin' 'bout. Ya don't know what they gone through ta make 'em like that..."  
"I'm sorry." He really was, and the burn of his eyes and nose was a good indicator, as well as the lump in his throat.  
"I know...It'll just take Grant and Shawn a while ta get that." Norman opened his arms and let the shaken up janitor cling to him as he wept. "N'aw now...It'll be just fine..."

It would be, really it would.  
Shawn may be a loud individual, but he knew to be soft spoken when others needed him to be, and Grant trusted him in these sorts of situations.  
He'd shake off the panic attack and both would quietly excuse themselves to eat in the accountant's office, not saying a word as they passed the still crying Wally and a rather apologetic looking Norman.  
Shawn nodded at the oldest studio employee and simply avoided Wally for the remainder of the day, keeping an eye on Grant who ended up taking a nap for the rest of the afternoon since Joey hadn't needed him to come in as much that day.  
When it was time to close for the night, Grant took the time to see the frazzled janitor out, and reassured him he felt no ill will towards him.  
Wally couldn't possibly know about his private life, especially not stuff he rarely disclosed with anyone, and if he'd the accountant swore up and down that if he'd been appreciative of slapstick humor, that he'd have likely laughed at the prank too because it was indeed a classic.  
That still didn't keep him from apologizing profusely and swearing he'd never do it again.  
That day though, Wally Franks did learn something important:  
  
**No matter what sort of care you put into planting your metaphorical garden, you reap what you sow.**  
 **Good results or not.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble request by mystoxxide, who wanted Wally to prank Grant in good fun with disastrous results.  
> Hope this turned out satisfying, even if it was a bit short!


	14. A Few Bottles of Whiskey and a Handful of Mind Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s anything that Norman regrets, it’s his and Sammy’s disaster of a first kiss…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t usually poke at these sorts of themes, but fair warning: This drabble is slightly NSFW due to a few “wandering hands” on Sammy’s part.

Susie’s and Sammy’s messy breakup over the replacement of Alice Angel’s voice actress role had taken an even bigger toll on the studio than anyone could have ever imagined. Morale had already been low with the steady increase of workload, and the stress of overclocking to chug through the narrowing time frames between deadlines. So having both Sammy Lawrence and Susie Campbell, two of the most outspoken and loud folk in the studio, in such low spirits really had an impact on the other employees.  
Sammy took it out on people, his fragility making his temperament unstable to the point lashing out felt like an easier way to cope than to deal with his emotional turmoils head on.  
Susie resorted to pettier methods. Decreasing morale with rumors and cruel gossip, and overall making any voice over roles she got ( _the very same low grade background characters she’d begun with_ ) a nuisance to get done if just to make Sammy’s life more difficult. This in turn, fed the perpetual cycle of anger and frustration that permeated the recording booth.  
Susie was gaslighting Sammy, and Sammy was verbally assaulting people in retaliation. All of this generated by Joey Drew “accidentally” sending everyone but the intended employee a memo detailing sensitive information regarding their work.  
Truly, Norman was at his wits end from pure exasperation over Drew’s tactics to keep the studio under his iron grasp. He knew the sort of dangerous game that devil of a man was playing, and he hated how easily everyone fell into place.  
Above all, he hated what Joey was slowly shaping both Sammy and Susie into.

Back in Louisiana Norman had a particular childhood bully who was the ringleader of the bigger meaner kids in town. He was a scrawny meek looking boy with a devious spark in his eye. A thinker instead of a go-getter.  
That boy had made Norman’s life a living hell, up until his growth spurt came in ( _he’d been a late bloomer so that had been a good 15 years under that little hellion’s tyrannical grasp_ ). Once Norman became bigger than his bullies, that clever bastard had tried buttering up to him. Get him nice and friendly so he’d fall in line with the rest of the thugs.  
Once Norman ‘kindly refused’, he’d instead tried to make him look bad to the rest of the neighborhood. Not too hard, considering he’d always been a bit of a sneak, but honestly he’d never much minded what others thought.  
Norman was the weird kid with the crazy eye, and the lightest feet in town. He could sneak up on the feral cats that lived in the overgrown playground without getting heard, and he was the kid that knew sign language because one day his hearing was going to go because he was born with something inherently wrong with his ears. He was also the kid that woke up at 5AM sharp to run training drills with his old man and his siblings.  
Nothing the little jerk could do or say had ever made much of an impact on his reputation. Then one day of course his little sister came in missing a braid and his little brother had a split lip. That day Norman beat the shit out of that hellspawn and got in trouble for standing up to his bully.  
That’s what Drew was doing. Pulling all sorts of cheap manipulative tactics that were slowly shaping the people he employed into being predisposed to doing whatever he felt like.  
Be it light threats hidden in passive aggressive comments, invitations to lunches or dinners where he’d test his boundaries of control over certain situations like who paid the bill or what sort of seed of doubt he could implant in someone’s brain, or even feed the fires of someone’s ire by meddling with their relationships.  
By doing this to Sammy, especially, Joey was destroying his reputation as a respectable musician. The blond music director may be unreasonably unsociable, but that did not affect the quality of his work in the least. If anything Sammy seemed to work better under a more private setting.  
Now that he was the focus of scrutiny and that people were constantly intruding upon his given workspace however, things were blurring. Professional and personal life had mixed and Joey was purposefully poking a sleeping bear to maintain control over the only composer he knew he could effortlessly keep under his control.  
If Sammy so much as tried to quit, the damage of his current behaviors would ensure he’d never be employed ever again, and then where would he go from there when he had bills and rent to pay, and another mouth to feed?  
Susie too was at risk.  
She’d taken the hit so badly that she was actively fighting her employer and superior by behaving in an almost childish way in protest over being personally wronged. By demeaning her own work she was risking one of Joey’s infamous blacklistings from the working industry. Who’d hire a difficult broad that thought she ran the show?  
No one, that’s who. Not in this overly masculine society.

20 years ahead of both in experience, Norman was well and truly concerned. Both of them weren’t bad people. They were fine adults with their whole life ahead of them if they played their cards right and sorted their emotional bullshit before snakes like that devil Drew got them cornered like mice in a maze. They were also both very competent and passionate about their work ( _which honestly was very attractive to him_ ).  
Obviously they weren’t getting it on their own, so he had to stir them towards the right path somehow. A little nudge.  
If only things weren’t so hard in this damn studio… Getting to Susie was complicated considering she was avoiding people. And Sammy? Well, Sammy had some concerning vices.  
"He’s been drinking.“ Jack had taken Sammy under his wing a while back. Norman knew how much the lyricist cared for his coworker and friend, so the pain in his voice was palpable. "He’s hardly himself anymore. He’s resorting to racist comments and shouting matches because he can’t come up with any real reason to put people down, and I caught Wally straight up crying in the bathroom the other day because Sammy made fun of his spots to the point he couldn’t take it anymore.”  
"Miss Campbell ain’t doin’ no better. Word is she pitched a mighty tantrum ta other day in ta booth.“ At least that’s what he’d witnessed while doing his usual rounds. "Sammy threatened ta write her up so Joey would fire her.”  
"Don’t remind me… I was conducting the band while Sammy helped Miss Pendle, and then Susie just barged in!“ Jack ran a hand over his tired face, looking a decade older than he actually was. Just from how frustrated the situation left him. "I’m losing my best friend Norman… If this keeps up I won’t be able to stand Sammy. Wally feels just about the same with Susie. They’re hurting everyone around them and they don’t care because they’re so caught up on attacking each another…”  
"They is more stubborn than a mule in ta field. Ain’t nothin’ I could say that could fix what Drew’s meddlin’ has done, but I could sure try ta call them ta reason.“ He muses. "I’ve had ta knock some sense into Sammy before. Could use the reminder…”  
"You’re not gonna hit him are you? Norman you could get fired…" Jack looked concerned at this.  
"N'aw. Drew don’t care, I roughed him up before and our 'kindly boss’ didn’t give a rat’s ass 'bout his wellbeing.“ Norman stated. "Henry sure did give me an earful tho…”  
"Who…?“  
"An old friend… Anyhow, can’t hurt ta go see Sammy 'bout his deplorable behavior. You know where he gone off to?” Norman dismissed the question with a smile. Jack shrugged at him in reply.  
"You could try his office. Unless you know where he holes himself up, then he’s probably there.“ The shorter of the two men fixed his bowtie and grabbed his hat from the hanger at the door. "Please go easy on him… It’s not his fault.”  
"Don’t excuse him being a right pain to everyone else.“  
"No, but you wouldn’t blame a wounded dog to bite when cornered would you?”  
"That’s what a muzzle is for.“   
Not that a muzzle would work on Sammy’s sort of breed. He was not one to be silenced so easily in his pain.  
Subdued… Maybe, if he had a couple of glasses of that yummy bravery juice and an ear to badger. He wasn’t a wordsy man in the sense that he could elaborate what he felt. He was more the word vomit type that said what he felt in bursts. Not very articulate but definitely trying to show what was going on in that confused head of his.  
Silencing Sammy was not worth the effort. It’d only make the situation worse. At best, Norman hoped to get him talking after knocking him about just a little.  
It never occurred to him that he’d end up doing something else entirely.

Jack hadn’t been kidding. The kid had indeed been drinking, and god the smell of whiskey in his office was overpowering. It came off thicker than Sammy’s cheap cologne, and it definitely reminded him of his Pepaw’s bootlegging days. The sharp smell of alcohol and a man’s bitter tears beneath the dense musk of despair.  
Norman crinkled his nose in displeasure as he watched the wiry frame of the blond music director draped over his desk like some twisted puppet that had its strings cut off abruptly. A soft noise made him roll his good eye, wondering when Sammy had fallen so far from grace to the point he was openly snoring in his office like he didn’t care about his reputation.  
He walked closer, half ready to slap him awake when he realized the noises weren’t snores. More like keening whimpers. Soft and throaty, just barely contained.  
Then he really scrutinized what the kid was doing. Left arm cushioning his head, while the other was… Oh.  
"Fuckin’ Christ Sammy…”  
The other’s flushed face turned to look at him with a jump, his hand still stuck in his pants, and his eyes just barely focusing.  
The wretched smell of alcohol and sweat were already an indicative of his state of inebriation. The lack of shame in his actions, another indication.  
But then it was the way he was staring up at him that really gave Norman a scope of just how shitfaced Sammy was.  
"………S'dat you Norms…?“ Speech slurred and bleary eyed. Drunk as an Irishman on Saint Patty’s, or a German man on Oktoberfest. This was not a dignified way to find the ornery composer. If anything Norman felt wrong intruding on… Whatever this was. A pity wank?  
"I… should come back later.” He was not dealing with this.  
"No!“ Sammy reached out for him. "S'day. S'ged'ing lon'ly…”  
The taller of the two froze and bit his lip in discomfort. He was not staying to watch Sammy jack off, there was no way in hell. He’d seen Piedmont enough times to warrant a restraining order if the man ever found out what he’d been up to while hiding in the walls. He wasn’t going to perv on someone 20 years younger than himself. That was just wrong… As hypocritical as that may sound.  
"I really should let yous finish that…" he tried to back off, but the other clearly wasn’t getting it. Counting bottles, Norman could guess why exactly that was. Just how much had Sammy drank?  
"Pl'ase. S'day… D'n’t wonna… D'n’t feel good all al'ne…" Sammy sniffled loudly. Still reaching out for him with his unoccupied hand. The other was still very much preoccupied down south, from what he could tell in the dark.  
"Sammy Lawrence I am not watchin’ you pleasurin’ yourself like some deviant! That ain’t right!“ Hypocrite, the little voice in the back of his mind hissed. You would.  
"Why no'd…? You cute…” Had he… had Sammy just called him cute? A man twice his age and well outside the whole petit brunettes sort he liked? “Big an’ han'some… You cou’d brea’ me… I’d let’s you…”  
This was… this was not what he imagined when he’d come to confront Sammy. That hungry, lustful look under the drunken stupor. The way he wasn’t even trying to hide his pleasure as he unapologetically stroked himself while speaking to Norman.  
An open invitation. It evoked something the older of the two men had been trying to bury for a while now. Desire. A desire that was certainly making his own trousers feel a tad constrictive.  
But he couldn’t. Not like this. Sammy wasn’t in the right state of mind for this.  
As if reading his mind, the blond stumbled forward. The projectionist backed up once more to avoid his grasp, but found his back colliding with the office door. Closing it and cornering himself in the process.  
Sammy breached his personal space and put a hand to his chest. Norman tensed under his touch, watching transfixed as the composer felt up his pecks in clear adoration. Adoration. Sammy Lawrence was showing something other than annoyance towards him and it felt like he was watching the man being enlightened in some way.  
"So strong…" He felt himself swallowing around a thick lump in his throat as Sammy’s purrs got to his groin rather quickly. “So han'some…”  
Norman’s good eye went back to the fiddling hand, just barely able to see what was happening beneath fabric. Then he felt Sammy’s exploring touch lower until it rest between his legs.  
"So big…" The blond whispered seductively before he pressed their lips together in a bid to get what he wanted. Get what both wanted. The taste was both vile and tempting. So hard to push away… But Norman knew it was inherently wrong to exploit.  
"Ok that’s enough a’ this charade!“ He grabbed hold of Sammy’s shoulders and pushed him off, ignoring the painful ache between his legs that begged for the music director’s hand to return. "Yous don’t just go feelin’ up a fella’s package you damn twit! If I was one o’ them homophobes I woulda beat yous black an’ blue for this! Ya gotta be smart Sammy, or yous is gonna end up dead one o’ these days!”  
The blond stared up at him in confusion and mild shock, clearly unhappy about the rejection. He pulled his hand out of his trousers and just stared at him with that semi unfocused gaze that was slowly gaining a bit of clarity as time progressed.  
"… Did… I do bad…?“ His confusion soon turned into frustrated anger "Why m'I never good 'nough?!”  
"Sammy what are ya hollerin’ 'bout?“  
"M'I ugly? W'y s'everyone got'a leave?!” Sammy stalked back over and pushed Norman against the door, clearly ready to blow up out of anger. “M'I not good 'nough for you?!”  
"Sammy…"  
"J'ust wonna feel! Feel good!“ The music director looked him in the eye, practically begging. "Wonna feel good! Pl'ease! Ju'sh wonna feel loved!”  
"Wouldn’t be right… you’re drunker than a skunk… ain’t right kid. Please see reason…" He pleaded, honestly pleaded with the distraught man.   
To his credit, it sort of worked. Sammy cried out in anger and shoved him a few more times against the door for good measure, before collapsing into a crying heap. All Norman could really do was kneel down and try to comfort him.  
"J'us wonna m-matter…"  
"Damn it Sammy… You do matter.“ He held him closely, feeling bitter about the circumstances behind the gesture. "Yous don’t gotta offer yourself up like this ta feel like you do…”  
Rather than reply, Sammy sobbed and clung to him for dear life. Letting all the pent-up heartbreak out.  
The games Drew played… they had an impact that Norman truly despised. Ones that lead people into the brink of desperation. Sammy was already a casualty of it, Susie not far behind.  
That night Norman took it upon himself to take Sammy home, not trusting the kid to be able to go on his own. He practically carried him all the way, making sure to go through less frequented streets to conserve some of the dignity the music director had left.  
Knocking on the door and having to explain to Sammy’s sister that he was out of it was… Distressing. That girl may be a ray of sunshine, but the obvious disapproval behind Abigail’s eyes was colder than ice.  
They’d been at odds recently, the two siblings, because of just how badly things were spiraling.  
Abigail wanted Sammy to leave the studio, find something else to do that didn’t take such a toll on his mental health. Sammy refused, out of pride and fear for what Drew might do to sabotage him.  
Norman found that this was another thing he couldn’t exactly fix. Wherever that devil of a man looked, a strange taint followed. Even something as pure as a sibling bond, or a kiss.  
And god, did Norman regret that damn kiss.  
What a fucking mess.


	15. Soldier On (Canon Divergent AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battlefield took his arm and a finger, and maybe a little bit of his sanity, but that studio took much more from everyone else. It took their mind, soul and body.

Dread had been a creeping stalker from the moment he’d witnessed many of his neighbors being called upon to help in the war efforts. It had followed Sammy around like a wolf in the shadows, making him fret for what he considered an inevitability of sorts. As the man of a household it only made sense that he’d be singled out as another viable soldier despite being the least capable sort to be found in a war.  
A man of the arts, with careful and gentle fingers. Cannon fodder at best.  
It was a harrowing feeling, because it truly made him fear for what may happen to his dear little sister without him around.  
So really, one should be more sympathetic when his turn did come up and his only reaction was to fall to his knees in despair.  
He had two days to make preparations. Then he’d be sent out with the rest of the sheep to the slaughter.

* * *

“You’re leaving?!” Joey Drew, as slow as he was to move about without that silly looking cane of his, was much too fast getting to his feet for Sammy’s liking. He shot up from his seat like a serpent ready to strike at any moment.  
The safety of a desk between a scared mouse and a vile snake was a comfort.  
“I don’t have a choice in the matter.” The blond kept his composure despite knowing quite well what Joey was more than capable of doing if he felt like he’d been crossed. He’d rather be scorned by the devil than be labeled a traitor to his country.  
One of these outcomes had a 50% chance of survival. “I’ve been drafted. In two days I’ll be sent off to die in a nonsensical war.”  
“But your obligations to the studio! We need you here to put a tune to the cartoons!”  
“My obligations?! Joey, I’ve been **drafted**. I can’t kindly decline!” Sammy exclaimed in disbelief. “It’s not like picking what you want to eat at lunch. If I try to skirt around this I’ll be as good as dead.”  
“If you go you’ll most certainly be dead, and then who’s going to compose for the studio?!” Joey’s tone had a hint of accusation, as if Sammy wanted this to happen. Might as well blame him for the war while he was at it.  
“It’s a fucking cartoon, Joey! My life is worth more than your stupid pictures!” His blood was beginning to boil. “I’m leaving and that’s that. I’m dropping off the rest of my scores so Jack can finish them up, and I’m conducting the band one last time today. But tomorrow I ain’t coming in because I’m helping my sister move out.”  
“You can’t do this to me! How am I supposed to find a composer on such short notice?!” Joey slammed his hands on the table. From the looks of it, he was seething.  
“Figure it out. You’re the boss aren’t you?!” Sammy turned away from the shaking Joey and walked out of his office. He felt strangely lighter on his feet. For once, arguing with his employer didn’t make him feel vulnerable.  
It was great, despite the circumstances.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re going to war… Sammy that’s…” Jack’s reaction to the news was a tearful one. It was quite sobering after getting a little giddy from getting under Joey’s skin with no real consequences. “I’m gonna miss you.”  
“Aww… I’ll miss you too, you big softy.” The blond gave the shorter and pudgier man a pat on the shoulder, allowing him to squeeze his midsection in a tight hug.  
“You’re going to be the man of the house now. Don’t let the band trample over you… Those savages can sniff out weakness like a pack of hungry hyenas.”  
“They’re not that bad. You’re just easy to rile up, is all.” Jack teased, laughing when Sammy gave him a pointed look.  
“You know as well as I do that Joey will go after the head of a department if the lackeys slack off.” He ignored the few glares he got from said ‘lackeys’. “And this bunch gets what it deserves for being a bunch of children on the job.”  
“Can you leave sooner?!”  
“Fuck you too Johnny! I hope your pipe organ falls on you!”  
  
Jack cackled, which got a few other band members to crack up as well. Sammy too found himself smiling. Despite the frustration of leading this group of hellions through a carefully composed song, he’d miss the few occasionally humorous banters and mishaps.  
He’d especially miss his good friend and pal. He could only hope the stress wouldn’t get to Jack while he was away.

* * *

People either gave him knowing pitiful looks, complimented his bravery in confronting Joey over his leaving on such short notice, or gave him a vague _'nice working with you, good luck’_ sort of gesture.  
Word had spread through the departments and Sammy felt genuinely impressed at how quickly people went from detesting his presence to sucking up just to save face. No one wanted to be that one guy who was a dick to a soon to be dead patriot.  
Susie absolutely smothered him with tearful kisses and tight hugs. She was a mess and, in return, he felt a mess as well.  
He didn’t want to leave…  
“I’ll see you off tomorrow.” She whispered in his ear during a particularly long hug in the recording booth. “For good luck.”  
“Thank you doll…” He held on to her for as long as he could. “I’m going to miss this.”  
“Getting cried on?”  
“Just being with you. You make my world so much brighter…”  
“Sammy Lawrence you’re such a sap, I love you.” Susie giggles into his chest.  
“Love you too Susiebell.”  
  
They’d parted ways, Sammy to collect his belongings and Susie to freshen up in one of the women’s bathrooms.  
On the way he encountered Norman while passing by the stairs that lead to his booth.  
“Who’d have thought…”  
“Hm?” He looked up at the projectionist who was staring down from his vantage point. Norman backed off and went for the stairs, meeting him halfway.  
“My pa was military. He did things a particular sorta way.” Norman explained “Includin’ raising his kids in a rather peculiar fashion.”  
“That would explain your… Eccentricity.” Sammy rolled his eyes, which got a laugh out of the older man.  
“N'aw. I’m just the weird one… My siblings are pretty normal folk.” He chuckled “But I digress. Thing is, my pa would wake us up at 5 in the morning, to do drills with us. 'Case of emergency he always did say… There’s a war out there now and yous would think they’d call on me to help.”  
“Haven’t they?” Sammy frowned.  
“No.” Norman’s smile gradually faded. “My eye. It ain’t no good, so they decided to call on my little brother instead…”  
“….Shit.”  
“Uh-huh. Was lookin’ for ya to tell ya. Your sister can still move in. Nelson’s just gonna be the head o’ the house instead.”  
“What about income? Who’ll pay the rent and bills?” He felt uneasy about the situation. “They’re still too young.”  
“I’ll help with expenses ta best I can, but my little niece and nephew is looking for work. I’d advise your sister do ta same. Times gonna get rough Sammy.”  
“They are… Thanks Norman.” The blond worried his bottom lip. “For helping.”  
“Well I’ll be… Sammy Lawrence thankin’ me for being a decent fella. What a day.”  
“Fuck you.”  
“You offerin’ dinner first?”  
“GOD!” He threw up his hands in defeat, which got a good hearty laugh out of the projectionist. “I’ll be around your brother’s tomorrow then. Good luck with Drew. I got a feeling he’ll be extra surly in my absence.”  
“Can’t imagine why. Poor Grant will go nuts if he hires an entire orchestra’s worth o’ folks to substitute yous.”  
  
The music director laughed and went back to what he’d been set to do. It felt nice to hear that he was worth an entire orchestra in someone’s eyes.  
He hoped Norman wouldn’t have a hard time.

* * *

Saying goodbye to his sister felt like a death march in its own right. He spent the entire day helping her move her belongings to the younger Polks’s house. Her two friends were good help, and they even offered him tea and told him to rest whenever he got winded.  
The boy, Nelson, warned him that he’d need to train his resistance if he wanted to survive the military drills. The family cat was much more sympathetic, seeming less worried about his physical capacity and more content with having a warm lap to sit on and a set of dexterous fingers to give it some good scratches.  
When they’d finished, Sammy had taken his sister out to lunch. They’d run around town just having fun, something he’d rarely been able to do while working at the studio.  
Then came the time to go.  
To his surprise the train station was packed with a few studio workers.  
Susie, Norman, Jack, Wally, Emma, Shawn, Grant and even a few of the band members had come to see him off.  
He wasn’t ashamed to admit he cried like a baby getting to say goodbye all over again. It felt good to be cared about, even if he wasn’t the easiest person to be around of. The only other person that cried just as hard was his poor sister.  
“Please come back, I can’t lose my grumpy brother.” The pleading broke his heart. He couldn’t promise he’d come back which was what made this so upsetting.  
“I’m not grumpy, just misunderstood.” He retorted playfully in between hiccups.  
“You’re a grumpy butt, grumpiest goof there ever was.” A tearful chuckle. His little Abby was flushed and covered in snot and tears. They were both very gross criers.  
“Slander! I’m a misunderstood suffering artist.” They pulled away and Sammy made sure to take a handkerchief from his pocket and begin trying to clean his sister’s face. “Be good to your little friends. I’ll try to write to you as much as I can…”  
“I will… Please be careful Samuel.” She pulled that old doll he’d given her and handed it over to him. Seamus had seen better days, well loved that he was. “Both of you have to come back.”  
He took her doll and smiled a sincere but rather sad smile.  
“I’ll do my best Abigail.”  
  
His best was not enough, but damn if he wasn’t a stubborn son of a bitch. He’d return with her doll, even if he had to drag himself all the way back.

* * *

Henry gave him a sympathetic look as both descended the lift with Boris looking at them uneasily. They’d pleased Alice enough that they’d gotten the tommy gun from her to complete the last task on her list of demands.  
Sammy glanced at the cartoonist with a sad and tired expression. His prosthetic pinkie tapping against his ruined prosthetic arm.  
It had already been clunky enough. After a few hits from a Piper, it had become virtually useless other than as a makeshift instrument.  
“Are you ready?” Henry asked.  
“No… But I never am for this part.”  
  
The lift stopped on level 14, and Sammy walked forward. Stamping his feet and kicking up as much ink as possible.  
The shrill screech of the Projectionist filled the room as the twisted horror that Norman Polk had become ran forward to evicerate whomever dared intrude upon its domain.  
Henry shot it down effortlessly and left Sammy to kneel beside the fallen beast.  
The blond sighed sadly, staring at the dying creature with pity, before gently brushing it’s back. He could hear Henry moving around, collecting the hearts.  
“Shhh… Hush now.” He continued to comfort what had once been a friend, feeling the burning gaze of Alice upon him. Judging him. “Sheep, sheep, sheep, It’s time for sleep. Rest your head. It’s time for bed. In the morning, you may wake. Or in the morning, you’ll be dead…”

If it appreciated not being alone as it died, the Projectionist didn’t give any indication. But the gentle pawing at his leg made Sammy hopeful that something of Norman remained to thank him before the poor creature went limp for good.  
It would reform with no memory of his kindness, but it made his soul feel less heavy with guilt.  
“Such a pity.” Alice taunted from above. “If only you’d cared and stayed… Maybe less of us would have suffered so greatly.”  
“I doubt that Susiebell.” He replied, uncaring if he would end up enraging her for denying her new identity. “I doubt that…”  
  
The battlefield took his arm and a finger, and maybe a little bit of his sanity, but that studio took much more from everyone else. It took their mind, soul and body.  
What was left made Sammy feel hopeless.


	16. Weird (Kid AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy was a weird kid. Norman thought he must have been a major brat to get thrown out, and the blond spitfire never tried to disprove it. Then he got wiser.

Everyone in their area knew the Polks. They were a quaint little family that owned an equally quaint little farm out near New Orleans. Nothing too fancy, just a few sugar cane plantations, and a bit of cotton on the side. Enough to get food on the table, pay for studies, and even support a few hobbies . It was a comfy lifestyle for a tight-knit family.  
Those who were aware of the Polks also knew what they tended to do when not tending to their crops.  
Despite a few shady ( _and sadly true_ ) rumours about dear old Poppop Polk, the military background of a few of the Polk men, and the sheer physically intimidating bulk that they often grew into ( _even the women_ ) due to years of hard work, the only hardened part of them were the muscles. In truth the Polks were the kindest most soft-hearted folk in Louisiana. As such they were suckers for a sad tale, second chances and what not. This tended to lead into them bringging in strays...  
The most recent, much to a young Norman's displeasure, being a bit of a sour crumb.

Sammy Lawrence was this pale tiny boy with a shock of curly blond hair and eyes that weren't a color Norman couldn't quite name. Something in between a soft brown and a flicker of green.  
He was a skinny sort, no more intimidating than a little fuzzy newborn chick, with knees marked by bruises and scratches ( _from climbing trees and skinning his knees on gravel_ ) and unevenly cut nails that looked like they'd been bitten until they were short ( _a nervous tick_ ).  
But, most notably, the kid was a snake. One with venom in his eyes, and words that bit into flesh like a snapping turtle out for the kill.  
Now Norman's mama always told him never to judge a book by its cover, but surely the saying couldn't apply if he judged the contents, right?  
The kid was just... Mean-spirited...  
Yelled, had tantrums like the devil himself made him whacky, and honestly watching his mama fret over him and try to make him more comfortable staying at the farm was like watching a trip for biscuits. Completely pointless.  
Sammy was a weird kid. And Norman thought he must have been a major brat ( _because obviously he was_ ) to get thrown out by his parents.  
To his credit the blond spitfire never tried to disprove it or give any logical reason to be there. Instead he resorted to verbally attacking him and his older siblings at every chance he got.  
Norman didn't much care for those wordy insults of his. The kid thought he was smarter than him, so fine let him believe that. But the moment he told his sister she looked like a little ugly ape, Norman's composure snapped like a twig.

"Yous thinks yous plenty rugged uh? Spoutin' all them nonsense fancy words like ta rest o' us don't get what yous sayin'?" He'd spat out twice as venomously, with a hint of fury over little Jolene's tears cutting his heart deep. "What sorta wet sock goes 'round throwin' crust at little girls?!"  
"None of your business you slobbering cyclops!" The little shit had his fists balled like he thought he could take on someone who brawled with two much larger siblings. He may not be able to beat Franny and Carol in a fight but damn, Phineas couldn't tear them off him either and he was 16! At 12 Norman wasn't stocky but he put up a fight. This 10 year old egg would go down easily. "She started it!  
"She's 5! I bet this why you ended up here. So dang mean not even your parents could love yous!"  
"Nomie!" Jolene protested, but the damage was done.  
  
The little blond stared wide eyed with his mouth hanging open, before his face went red with rage. Like the devil possessed him.  
Shrieking loudly the brat lunged and both he and Norman went rolling downhill into the creak.  
On Jolene's account, both of them were in trouble for saying and doing bad things ( _his one regret was not biting the kid harder when he tried to go for his neck_ ). She also got a light spanking for something she'd said.  
Much to Norman's embarrassment, matters parteining his behavior were taken up to his Great Nanna. And boy did she look angry...  
"Bárbara told me yous went and said some evil things to that poor boy." The burn of her gaze made his cheeks hot with shame. But also a little bit of resentment.  
"Not like he a saint Nanna! He called Jolene a monkey, she was just playin'!"  
"She also insulted him to his face, cuzz you boys drilled it into her head that it's fine ta go around making fun o' people you don't know as long as you ain't caught doin' so." Nanna pointed out. "Now why'd ya go an' tell him what yous did?"  
"Ain't it obvious? Kids out here for SOME reason... And his attitude sure makes it seem like he gots thrown out with the rest o' the trash."  
"NORMAN ELIAS POLK!"

Norman yelped in fright as his great grandmother pointed her long crooked finger at him and began laying down the law. You did NOT piss off Nanna.  
  
"You do NOT get to say such evil things in this household! You don't know nothin' 'bout why that poor boy is out here, and goin' bout saying such booshwash will get your hide tanner than a leather belt!" She spat as she went, her toothless sneer a great sign of her displeasure. "That boy just 'bout went and lost his poor mother, and his father is in hospital sick as a dog, so you best go out and 'pologize to that frightened child before I get half a mind to drag you there by the ear and spank your butt in front o' the whole family 'til the only words comin' out that crude mouth a'yours are words a regret!"  
"Y-yes Nanna!"  
"Go on then! Git!" She pushed him out the door. "Apologize!"

His Nanna was crazy scary when she wanted to be.   
Her promises were also always kept.   
He shakily apologized as soon as he caught sight of Sammy, and he must have well and truly looked shaken up because the kid took it without so much as putting up a fuss.

At dinner things simmered down, and the little blond didn't put up a fight about staying or eating "slop" like he'd his memaw's cooking before. According to Phineas, their pops had sat the kid down and layed it out just as hard as Nanna had done to Norman.  
Either behave or risk getting sent somewhere less friendly. His pops also called in for extra drills the next morning, as punishment for their bad influence on Jolene. Sammy would participate, as his father thought such exercise routines were good for later on in life.  
You never know.  
Through following the same routine as everyone else, Sammy seemed to overall mellow out. He was less aggressive towards everyone else, actually did a decent job, wasn't too bothered about the farm work ( _apparently his dad owned a cattle ranch_ ), and he actually started playing with the other kids as well. It took time for him to get comfortable, but heck if he wasn't fun to brawl with! Least now Norman had a chance to win!  
Sammy Lawrence's stay wasn't a long one though. A month and a half.  
As soon as Mr. Lawrence got out of the hospital he'd practically floored it all the way down to their farm to get his boy as far away from the black folk ( _no wonder the kid was such a ball of bad manners, his old man was one of THOSE people_ ) as quickly as possible.  
Must of thought they'd tainted the kid or something...  
No skin off Norman's nose. He may have been in the wrong about why Sammy lashed out the way he did, or about the kid being a crumb, but that didn't stop the little shit from being a weirdo.  
Hopefully he'd grow out of the superiority complex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reworked a few things here to fit the prompt request, considering Samuel Sr. wasn't the best person or parent but he he wouldn't just abandon his child, and also the fact my Norman is 20 years older than Sammy in the canon compliant verse.
> 
> Kid AU! Norman and Sammy would have honestly beat each other up a lot as young brawling hellions are wont to do. They'd eventually become friends, but it'd take time and a lot of sticking their feet in their mouths.


	17. Helping Hand

Back when he’d been trying to reintegrate into civilian life after going to war, Henry had no conceivable way of explaining his experiences in an eloquent fashion. It was very difficult to put into words the sort of visceral feelings that made his chest tighten with a mixture of white hot panic and instinctual terror.  
There were no feasible words to express the sensation of looking another human being in the eyes and knowing that they were just as reluctant to be there, and that one of them had to die for the other to live.   
War was a topic that muted him to a somewhat permanent degree. Too hard for him to talk about.  
But the studio? The horrifying atrocities Joey had committed in his absence? The lengths he'd gone to get what he wanted?  
That was the one horrific happenstance in which he could find his voice and curse out a supposed friend for their heinous crimes, especially when he found himself back on that familiar doorstep that led him into that repeating nightmare... The mockery of a long-dead dream.  
Yes, Henry Stein, the man of few words, would end up spewing out as many acidic profane words that he could conjure up on the spot. So foul they were that they would have had a sailor as shocked and disgusted as a blushing nun.  
Not that anyone could judge him for it. A man of routine could only bend so much to the insatiable will of another, before he slowly found himself pushed over the precipice of madness.  
It was by pure miracle he hadn't lost his senses long ago. Because, thankfully, Henry made due with what little leniency and creativity he had to keep himself entertained.  
Every few loops he changed things up just a little bit.

  
The “Long Runs” as he called them, were a respite of sorts Henry had concocted long ago as a means to give himself a break from the main storyline Joey so vehemently forced him through, with little to no choice in the matter.  
They were, in a sense, somewhat of a sacred thing.   
His sanctuary, as Sammy would put it, and one that he'd long since forced his puppeteer not to disturb.  
If Joey didn't want his marionette to flop onto the ground in defiance of restarting the same old stale song and dance all over again, he'd have to allow him some time to relax and get back on his game.  
Otherwise Henry would simply sit down and refuse to even go near the Ink Machine, much less begin this charade.  
Without the hellish thing as his driving point, it’s not like Joey could find any reason to push him forward anyway.   
Not without the Ink Demon being let out to take on its role of the relentless hunter.  
So, having learned this, Joey seemed to begrudgingly allow him to explore the studio to his heart’s content without pushing him to do anything that would immediately set him towards that final stage. That repetitive speech that made less and less sense the more Henry experienced it.

  
On these breaks Henry took his time and did what he’d done back when he was a kid: _He people watched._  
An odd hobby, but one that taught him something quite valuable about creating characters. Traits and qualities.  
Everyone had a way of being that was entirely unique to them. Be it the way they walked, if they spoke just with their mouth or with their hands, or how they chose to project themselves out in the world.  
Dress and speech patterns, certain ritualistic habits, likes and dislikes...All things tended to be readable on a person if you just stopped, watched and listened for long enought.  
Which is why, on every one of these breaks, Henry took the time to figure out everyone’s gimmicks.  
Soon after, he’d started his little gestures of kindness...

  
It all started with the swollen searcher with the nice hat. Jack Fain, the once lyricist that had aided in getting the right words to Sammy’s jolly little tunes.  
Henry had been absentmindedly exploring the sewer tunnels near the music department when he’d noticed the searcher in a rather bad way.   
Overstuffed with the thick ink that Twisted Alice so coveted from his brethren. So large and nauseatingly lumpy that he couldn’t even move out of his current spot.  
He supposed that was his inevitable fate unless crushed with a crate, which made him feel a little less upset about dropping such a heavy object onto the poor thing.  
Then, much to his surprise, Sammy Lawrence himself sauntered down from one of the adjacent tunnels to find the pitiful creature blocking his path. And even more surprising, he actually seemed sad about it's sorry state.  
“Oh you silly sheep… This is the 4th time this week that I’ve found you so heavy with your precious wool…” How Sammy could count the weeks, Henry wasn’t sure, since he knew for a fact the music director often forgot his own name. Come to think of it, Sammy forgot a lot of things, reminding Henry of a fellow in his platoon that was afflicted with early onset dementia. He’d been discharged due to becoming a liability, and seeing him fight the disarray of his own mind had been a honestly terrifying spectacle.  
Henry had felt a great pity for him, which is about the same way he felt for Sammy now. The poor guy could have been great had he not ended up in Joey Drew’s grasp and then tossed into this nightmare realm. “Not to worry...Your shepherd is here now, although you’ll have to forgive me. I have no shears.”

He’d watched in morbid fascination as Sammy dug four-fingered hands into the swollen searcher’s mass, pulling out chunks of it in a way that made Henry’s stomach twist in discomfort.  
If Jack felt any pain, he didn’t show it.   
If anything with each clump of ink removed, he seemed almost relieved.  
Finally, once returned to his regular proportions, the searcher let out a much softer humming sound. One that was much nicer to the ear than the wet hiss he reserved for Henry whenever he got too close to the skittish creature.  
“You’re welcome my little sheep. The others will be most pleased with the wool you’ve so generously provided…” The pile of thick ink was truly massive, and the old artist could only wonder what Sammy hoped to do with it. “Please refrain from consuming more. Excessive indulgence is a sin you know...”

From the way Sammy had addressed Jack upon arrival, this seemed to be a recurring issue. One the self-appointed prophet seemed to exclusively come down into the sewers to solve himself.  
It piqued Henry’s interest in such a way that he’d begun to wonder… If he helped with that, would this in any way benefit him?   
Couldn't do him wrong to have some thick ink at hand...  
And then he wondered: _Would helping them benefit Jack and Sammy in any way?  
_ Only one way to find out!

  
He'd left it for the next time he decided to take a break. First going through a few more loops to give himself time to figure out just how to help the prophet and the swollen searcher that lived down in the sewers.  
He couldn't exactly allow Sammy to sacrifice him. It would only end with the delusional ex-music director dying faster.   
So what could he, a humble artist, possibly do for someone who was so lost to devotion?  
And then there was the question of what could he do for Jack. The only thing he seemed interested in, was being left alone and keeping a hold of that dang valve. Henry hadn't personally known the man, so this was a difficult task.  
Luckily he found an answer in the form of an audio log Buddy had collected well before the older man had set foot in the studio.  
As it turned out, Jack Fain was a fan of coffee. That at least was something to look into, as he made his way all around the studio. He'd mostly only found rations of bacon soup, but surely there had been a coffee machine in the break room, right?   
And if he could keep his seeing tool, maybe he could keep anything else he kept on his person until the end of another run? He'd tried it once with Wally's keys and he was pretty sure he'd kept them on the next loop, only to lose them again later ( _the man should have invested in a better key ring, that one was a slippery bugger!_ ).   
But could it work for heftier items?  
That too was a theory he tested, and Joey surely must have found it quite odd when he'd begun his end of the loop speech, only to stop as he stared in confusion at the bag of coffee Henry had brought along with him.  
"...I have questions..." He deadpanned as he stared at the bag of coffee with slight distrust. A bag of coffee beans. Nothing could be less threatening.  
"Funny, I thought that was my job?" Henry grinned. "Asking questions, and never getting any answers?"  
"Funny indeed… Whatever you're up to, don't think it'll do any good." Joey frowned. "Your path is set, and nothing can change that. Even if I’ve been rather patient with your excursions."  
"We'll see." That only gave Henry more motivation to try. If just to spite Joey.  
  
Another guilty pleasure of his that he indulged in from time to time.  
He too needed a bit of fresh unpredictable entertainment after all…

To not lug around a bag of coffee everywhere he went ( _which wasn’t very practical_ ), Henry had decided to take another break on his next run to begin experimenting with this little idea that had been borne out of curiosity.  
It was easy to set a goal for it: _If offering something of comfort to someone that had minimal impact in Joey’s puppeteering did anything of value not only to himself but for the person in question that he sought to offer some kindness to, then what could potentially happen if he tried the same trick with some of the "main cast"?  
_ It was, in all honesty, a rather clinical way of thinking and planning things out.  
He was essentially detaching himself from this reality to test those around him, having superior knowledge of what was truly going on ( _albeit in a limited and at times fleeting fashion_ ) thus a sort of intellectual advantage over their situations.  
He was being a less harmful manipulator. Setting up events like Joey. The morality of it all came crashing down just as he’d gotten a coffee machine to work.  
“Keep it together Henry.” he shook himself out of that nasty train of thought as fast as he could. “You’re not doing anything malicious...You’re just...Making coffee.”

He could maybe use a cup or two himself. If just to settle his nerves. How ironic that a stimulant could calm anyone.

"Yeah, just a simple cup of coffee. No harm, no foul…" Except to his hand when the damn coffee maker scalded him for no particular reason.  
If anything, he hoped this was the best damn coffee that the swollen searcher had ever tasted in his whole life as an ink slug.  
There was just one tiny problem with this plan: _Henry didn't have any cups._ Nor any mugs. Not even those tiny little plastic cups that came with these sorts of machines.  
The studio was apparently in a "bring your own mug" policy just to skirt around buying a refill of those.  
"Joey you damn cheapskate…" he had to improvise. Thankfully he wasn't short on containers or an appetite for bacon soup. He just hoped the taps in the bathroom would still have access to clean water...

To Joey it must be quite a sight, watching an old man make his way down into the sewers balancing three cans of soup containing piping hot coffee in them. The stairs weren't exactly up to code and the ink coating them was slippery, so this whole journey to sate his damn curiosity might leave the old artist with second degree burns and potentially a ruined back.   
Thankfully he managed his way down into the depths with no real issues, and noted the shadow of the prophet following his every move.  
Good, he hoped an offering would appease him. Play on the same field as Sammy in a sense, just to see what he might do. Granted treating Jack nicely might grant him the cultist's mercy if he treated him like a friend still.  
At the sight of him, the thing that had once been Jack Fain began to flee as usual.  
"Hey, wait… I have something for you!" He watched the creature skirt around a corner, hat barely staying on.  
He stood there, unwilling to run, and simply held the cans of hot coffee with a slightly disappointed look on his face.  
And then…

**_...Snhiff shniff shhhhniff…_ **

The wettest sniffing sound Henry had ever heard assaulted his ears, as the swollen searcher peeked back around the corner at him. Its mouth shut but the hollow sockets where it's eyes should be appearing to be wide as it tracked what must be an alluring aroma to it.  
It appeared searchers still retained a sense of smell, which begged the question of how Jack could stand to live down here.  
"Smells nice doesn't it? I uh…" he waved one of the cans carefully so as not to spill its contents. "Got a coffee maker upstairs working again."  
**_"Ksshhhff…Eeee..."_** he couldn't understand what it said, but Henry was pretty sure Jack was trying to say "coffee". He recognized what it was, and most importantly it looked like he desperately wanted it.  
"Yes. It's coffee. Do you want it?" He outstretched his arm, trying to entice the swollen searcher with his peace offering.  
It looked at the can, the sloshing dark liquid inside it, then stared at Henry.  
It seemed to be trying to decide if it was worth risking its "hide" to get what it so desperately craved.  
Finally after an agonizing minute, it went for it.

Henry nearly toppled over as the swollen ink abomination lunged for the can. He damn near spilled the other two on himself as well. Luckily he'd regained his footing and managed to keep everything nicely contained in the repurposed cans. The searcher on the other hand was less the skittish thing that ran circles around him, and more like an overexcited puppy.  
The slurping desperate chugging noises as it inhaled the coffee were a little gross, but that was easily overlooked by just how happy it looked.  
"That good uh?"

The gurgling purr that followed got a chuckle out of him, and he couldn't help give Jack a gentle pay on the hat.  
He couldn't have imagined just how happy the poor fellow would get.  
And he wasn't the only one.  
That worn out Bendy mask peering from the corner gave Henry a good idea of just how impactful such a small gesture had been.  
"I have an extra can if you'd also like some…" He'd brought one in the hopes that Sammy might appreciate some as well, but he wasn't sure if he liked the stuff. In the little time they'd worked together at the studio, the music director had been more of a smoker than a coffee enthusiast. Shame he wouldn't be able to get such an item for him…  
To Henry's surprise, rather than keep his distance and wait for his dramatical reveal, Sammy actually responded to him.  
**"My stomach does not react kindly to most substances besides the Lord's plentiful gift..."** His words were devoid of emotion. Awfully cold but also contemplative. **"I'm sure my darling sheep would be more than happy to consume my share…"**  
  
The happy gurgling more than confirmed this, and Henry wasted no time to give him the extra can.  
Jack took it gleefully and began to drink it eagerly.  
"A picky eater…" Henry felt slightly disturbed at the idea that Sammy was drinking any of the ink just laying around. "I can respect that."  
**"I assure you, it is not by choice."** The mask cocked to the side, studying him. **"Although I must admit the stomach aches have helped ensure my physique stays at the peak of perfection to ensure my tasks are well done."**

Henry frowned and stared down at his own stomach. He was a little on the pudgy side nowadays, and honestly chugging cans of bacon soup probably didn't help.  
But he wouldn't call Sammy's proportions the peak of perfection.  
"Doesn't sound too fun, getting sick unless you drink… the Lord's gift." Best not step on any toes, if Sammy still had any that is. Play it casual.  
**"I do not believe you've come down here to critique my practices as a devout follower of the Ink Demon."** The Bendy mask turned to watch Jack devour the can of coffee. Henry felt like he must have been smiling fondly. **"You have… Come down here to present us with offerings. Kind ones."**  
"Yes." He replied calmly, remaining just as calm when the mask turned back to him. Sammy's body language spoke for him more than his words did. He was doubtful.  
**"Why?"** A good question.  
"I had nothing better to do." He responded truthfully, albeit only partially. "And you could both use the kindness I'm sure."

They could, they honestly could.  
After having their minds, bodies and souls taken from them, their identities torn asunder, both Sammy and Jack could only benefit from being treated with the one thing Joey had stripped from them.  
Humanity.  
That run, for such a tiny little gesture as offering Jack some coffee, Sammy let him go without a fight.  
Joey's speech was much more heated than usual, but nothing really seemed to change on the next loop. At least he didn't think so until he found a can of hot coffee waiting for him in Sammy's sanctuary, as well as a bowl of extra thick ink with the valve propped in the middle of it.

* * *

His second gesture couldn't have been more easy. While Sammy still tried to sacrifice him, his speech was more subdoed. Almost playful in a way that said _"I know what you did and I'm grateful, even if my actions don't show it"_. Joey's grip on him was too strong to escape with just one kind action, but not enough that Sammy even in his state of forgetfulness could get the mental image of Henry treating Jack to some coffee out of his inky brain.  
The alterations to his pattern gave Henry plenty of time to figure out just what to do for his encounter with Twisted Alice.  
Playing slightly into Sammy's delusions had allowed him to get close, so focusing on her obsession might coax what little of Susie was left.  
Because he'd gotten wise and asked what it was like to become a toon to the only other person qualified to give him a proper response.  
Sure Buddy couldn't talk, but his reignited personality had given Henry insight on what it was to become a cartoon character.  
There was a power struggle at first. The original human personality and the Toon's personality clashing in an effort to remain in or take full control. A chaotic and confusing process until one came out victorious.  
At first Boris had won… then Buddy had slowly begun resurfacing the more loops Henry went through.  
Now they had a mutual agreement. They needed each other to survive, and the same turned out to be true for Alice and Susie.  
Alice being the more dominant and jaded of the personalities, having long since fallen from grace after witnessing the sheer cruelty and lack of hope this abominable studio had to offer.  
Susie ended up being the weaker of the two, guarded by her dragon like a princess in a twisted castle.  
She sometimes spoke up, clearly disturbed by what their shared hands had done in the past, but Alice had too much of a grip on her to ever let her go.  
If Henry could properly appease the angel, he might be able to get to Susie as well.  
Give them… What? A glimmer of hope?  
Better than let them stew away in their rotten despair.  
"You're staying. I'm going." He pleaded with Buddy after taking the gifts left behind by Sammy and Jack. "Don't give me that look, I've told you what she does when she gets her hands on you…"  
  
A soft whine as the toon wolf pleaded for him to reconsider.  
"I know you worry, but I need to reach out to them. Even if it doesn't change much, they deserve some consideration." He pauses to think back on the tapes Susie had left, and then her final speech before he was forced to confront the brute Boris inevitably became. "After Joey used them it's the least I could do."  
Buddy ( _and no doubt Boris_ ) growled in frustration before eloquently writing just what he thought of Joey.  
Henry crinkled his nose at the rather uncharacteristic choice of words, but the very last sentence made him smile somberly: **“You don't have to fix Joey's mistakes.”  
** "I wish it was that simple. I really do." It wasn't like he had a choice, not when Joey thought he could evade the responsibility himself and pin it on someone else.

Alice was fairly easy to butter up to. He'd entered her lair and sat through her little song like the patient man he was, and then when she finished up with her usual screeching finale he did something she didn't quite expect.  
He applauded.  
She was so caught off guard that she just stood there, even as the lights turned back on. Flabbergasted at the sudden adulation.  
"What a finish, truly miss Angel, you're quite a gal." He'd continued to clap, bowl of thick ink balancing precariously on top of his head. "I'd offer flowers, but sadly all I have on me is ink…"  
**_"...Why, what a flatterer…"_** She sounded uncertain, a hint of Susie just barely at the surface. She must have been quite shocked as well.  
No one had ever reacted to Twisted Alice's presence with such a welcoming embrace. She was a creature to be feared after all.  
"Flatterer? Me? My goodness miss Angel, don't tell me you don't get the occasional fan…" he removed the bowl from his head and made sure the thick black blob was quite visible to her. An enticing offering provided by Jack Fain.  
It's not like he needed the excess ink.  
**"Sadly not. If only most visitors were as well mannered as you..."** She crossed her arms, Alice's suspicions breaking through. **"But that's to expect from the real creator, isn't it Henry?"**  
"Glad to see some recognition, but honestly I can't be credited for any of this. Not when it's been… Altered to such a degree." Henry looked around with a saddened expression. "Joey really managed to taint everything he touched..."  
**"Only if you let him."** The Angel's hiss was a terrifying thing. _"But it was so easy to let him in, wasn't it...? He had a way with words…"_  
Susie was such a meek girl. A scared chick in a world conducted by the big bad wolf. And Alice? Alice was a fox that offered her protection.  
But Henry could be just as cunning provided he was given the chance. Always for a good reason, rather than satisfying his selfish desires.  
So very unlike his childhood friend.  
"Words were his weapon of choice, until that wasn't enough." Henry offered her the bowl, watching as she inspected it. Tested it's stability. She seemed pleased.  
**"Why are you here, Henry? Why come back to this miserable place?"** Alice's gaze was piercing, but not as malicious as it often was. **"And I'm sure it's not due to nostalgia, or an excuse to flatter your way up to the heavens."  
** "I think I knew once." He replied in truth, because you didn't lie to an angel. "But now? Now I'm not so sure… I think Joey liked that naivety on my part. It certainly worked to his advantage."  
**"That it did, little errand boy. You're just as trapped as the rest of us…"** She dismissed him. **"You may pass freely… But don't think I'll show you mercy twice. You are, after all, still a thief."  
** "What's a man to do but try to protect a poor pup?" He couldn't help tease as he made his way to the door. He was free to explore her lair and go on about his "day" without her tasks or her looming presence. That was good enough a reward for him, even if it didn't promise Buddy's freedom from the cruel fate that awaited him.  
**"Such a shame that pup wasn't meant to be."** Alice responded. _"A shame indeed. He was such a nice boy..."_

This particular encounter gave him a lot to think. The people he'd once assumed to be monsters weren't inherently malicious. That much he'd figured from Sammy's behaviour after he'd played nice.  
But while most chose to cower and cry, or lose themselves to desperation and lies, Alice was simply resigned to the hand she'd been dealt. Because, honestly, she was in a terrible position to begin with. Even if Susie clearly wanted better, for the both of them.  
In the end, the angel was only trying to protect her vessel even if Joey set her on a most cruel path.  
She was tired of grasping on to shallow hopes of ever getting out. Rather be the hunter than the prey.  
That run, his old friend seemed even more frustrated with him.  
"Stop humanizing them. There's nothing you can do for them." Joey had grit out through his teeth, trying to keep a smile that was as insincere as his speeches.  
"You're wrong. There is something I can do." He'd responded, unbothered by the anger in his captor's words.  
"And what's that?"  
"Treat them with decency, which is something you never did."

* * *

The Projectionist was a challenge. From what he could tell, Norman Polk had essentially gone feral from years of agony and isolation.  
Most of the Lost Ones even considered him a dumb and very violent animal.  
Alice thought of him as useful. Susie felt a terrible pity for him.  
And Buddy? Buddy both feared and felt anguish when confronted with the Projectionist's presence.  
Henry had known him for a short while, so he could understand the sentiment. Norman had been a good albeit quirky man.  
_"He looked after us…"_ Susie spoke over the intercom. _"He was so kind. It hurts to see him like this… A monster."_

While Alice didn't let up on her list of tasks, and did indeed always take the cartoon wolf as scripted, she'd started letting Susie come forth to speak to Henry. She had a lot to say.  
"If I knew how, I'd help him." He watched the Projectionist walk through the flooded maze of projectors and hearts. Each step heavy, and the clicking of the projectors somewhat deafening.  
Occasionally it let out a soft crackly noise from its speaker.  
**"You'd die."** Alice interjected.  
"How so?"  
**"Why do you think it takes hearts, Henry?"** The twisted angel asked. Come to think of it, he'd never considered the why of its actions. **"It's because its own was stolen long ago."  
** "Joey stole his heart?"  
**"No my dear errand boy."** Alice chuckled bitterly, before Susie took hold. _"Sammy did…"_

Joey was getting awfully frustrated with him, so Henry gave in and followed the plot to a t on the next three runs. He needed to think anyway.   
Think of how to address the problem.  
Because, really, how would he convince Sammy to halt his ritual to look for something he might not even recall ever having stolen?  
And then there was the matter of giving it back to the Projectionist without getting brutally killed.  
He decided to just wing it on his next break. Starting with visiting Jack with more coffee, if just to get Sammy to talk.  
It worked, but the prophet seemed hesitant to talk about the resident of level 14.  
**"That beast is a dangerous one… Nothing but my lord can stop it's rampage."  
** "That beast is looking for something someone took from him." Henry explained. "Or so I've been told."  
**"And how am I to fix this exactly, little sheep?"** The deranged cultist crossed his arms. **"Surely you mustn't think of me as a miracle worker?"  
** "Help me find it. I've been told you might know where to look."

Truth be told Sammy had no idea what he was on about, but he was adamant to repay him for once again bringing some semblance of joy into his favourite "sheep's" life.  
Luckily there wasn't any need to run around in futility, searching for something that might be long gone.  
The prophet's memory issues resulted in Sammy placing items he considered of value in the same place. A box hidden under the floorboards beneath the cot he'd set up in his sanctuary.  
Unluckily, a heart was not among the objects he'd stored. At least it seemed so since it wasn't anywhere to be found in the box of trinkets.  
"Damn it…" he sighed sadly. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.  
**"I am sorry to disappoint."** The Bendy mask betrayed no real emotions, so Henry wasn't too sure if the apology was genuine. He sounded a little miffed about having his personal space invaded, but didn't act upon it. **"What is it you seek, exactly?"**

Looking through the box, Henry gave a nonchalant shrug.  
He picked up a golden locket that was coated in dry ink, turning it slowly in his hand as he tried to figure out how to surpass this bump in the road.  
Sammy quickly reached out and took it from him, clearly upset that he'd touch his personal belongings.  
**"Don't touch that."** The cultist hissed.  
"Sorry…" he watched him put the locket back into the box, next to what appeared to be a series of unlabeled tapes. There was also a chain with a ring on it, and a few other trinkets that seemed to hold some sentimental value. "I know you can't remember much… but… Did you ever take a heart? A literal heart?"  
**"A… Heart..."  
** "Yes. I know it sounds strange but--"  
**"Not at all. They're plentiful down below."** Sammy shrugged **"Delicious too… More so than the ink or the soup. I cannot explain how."**

And Henry would rather not have him explain, because his stomach wouldn't be able to handle it. He’d killed people before as a soldier, seen horrific things, but the thought of someone describing eating a human-ish heart made him sick.  
"Then, yes a heart. Maybe not an ink one." He added, trying to keep the conversation on track.   
The ex-music director paused, tapping a finger to the chin of the mask, before staring down at his own chest. Much to Henry's horror, he plunged his fist into his own torso and pulled out…Well it must have been a heart at some point.   
Now it looked like an amalgamation of stitched flesh and all sorts of wires and weird clicking mechanisms. A perfect fit for the quasi-mechanical monster skulking around level 14.  
**"Would this be the heart in question?"  
** "W-what were you keeping it literally on your person for?!" He couldn't help spit out, much to the annoyance of the deranged ink man.  
**"Where would YOU keep a heart?"** He huffed **"It was safer here… And it felt important."**

No kidding. And important it was, to the point where Sammy didn’t want to give it back. How was Henry going to convince him to do so?   
Well…  
“The person it belongs to needs it back.” He pleaded. “Can’t you please hand it over so I can give it to him?”  
**“I cannot trust that you’d find the rightful owner.”** Sammy stated. **“Sheep need guidance, not to guide. And you, little sheep, are risking falling prey to the wolves.”  
** "I can assure you I know the owner, and so do you." At least he had, once. "The Projectionist needs it back Sammy. Please, be reasonable."  
**"I am being reasonable. I'm protecting this from that horrific beast!"** He held the heart closer to himself, very likely glaring beneath his mask.  
"It doesn't need protecting from him! It needs to go back to him!" Henry argued back. The old cartoonist was getting fed up.  
 **"No!"**

That was… not the right answer.  
At least not when Henry was so close to a breakthrough. Or so he thought.  
He regretted what he had to do to get that heart in the end.  
Killing an unarmed man felt like cowardice, even if it was for a good cause.

Level 14 was always such a dreary place. Even with a newfound goal, an old veteran like Henry still felt uneasy going through such a maze.  
After being forced to kill Sammy that run, he wanted good results. If just to justify his actions as being for the greater good.  
They… weren't.   
The Projectionist charged as usual upon seeing him, and Henry had to fight his instincts to flee.  
Instead he held out his gift, closed his eyes, and prayed.  
No pain came, but the scream…  
That gutteral and mechanical crackling of sheer agony. Like hot iron had struck flesh.  
The Projectionist was screaming, it's chest ripping itself open to reclaim the missing piece. And then, when the wires shot out and took back the heart, the screaming only intensified.  
Boris took hold of the body he shared with Buddy. The cartoon wolf howling in despair to match the screams while curling into a tight shaking ball in the elevator.  
The Projectionist fell on its knees as it continued to scream.  
Henry's mind was fraying just listening to it. Watching the pitiful beast claw at its mending chest and screech until its speaker could handle no more.   
A loud pop filled the air, and suddenly there was no sound.  
But the clawing continued  
The convulsing carried on.  
It was screaming without a voice and it was all Henry's fault.  
Coward that he was, he ran to the elevator and slammed a hand against the buttons. His eyes too blurry from regretful tears to see where he'd end up.  
Alice and Susie remained quiet. Their silence was damning. Condemning his actions and allowing his conscience to fall heavy with guilt.

That time, once he set foot in the quaint New York apartment, Henry shakily sat down at Joey's table and stared into nothingness.  
A tired hollow man that couldn't bring himself to look at the grinning devil that was positively gloating with joy.  
"I told you so." A choked sob and bitter tears followed. Henry hated how careful Joey's hands were as he wiped away his tears, and as he murmured sweet words into his ear.  
That burning cobalt gaze aglow with the flames of victory.  
Fuck him. Fuck Joey Drew.  
This old war veteran would not give in so easily. He just had to try harder.

* * *

There was no point in following the plot. He felt like he had to fix the mishaps of his last run before he even tried to offer his services to either Tom or Allison.  
This much was clear once he stepped foot in the sewers, because instead of being happy to see him or even feeling timid, Jack outright attacked him on sight. Gurgling and hissing in rage at him having hurt Sammy in his last run.  
"I know… I'm sorry…" he kept the irate swollen searcher at bay if only just barely, hoping to appease him with his sincerest regrets. "Can you take me to Sammy? I… I want to make it up to him. What I did was wrong."

More than wrong. It was damaging.  
Because instead of the usual inky figure clad in overalls, boots and a Bendy mask, Henry was met with a shivering searcher with said mask.  
"Oh Sammy… I'm so sorry." He was at risk of getting his throat ripped out, but he still couldn't help kneeling down to make himself look less threatening to the frightened creature.  
The searcher didn't try to retaliate, instead it clutched its chest and groaned pitifully.  
"I know what I did was wrong. But so was keeping Norman's heart." Not that Sammy wasn't aware of this. He'd claimed it to be important, and he'd wanted to protect it, but he'd also been reluctant to give it back. People's selfishness had already done so much damage to this studio, it was only cruelly ironic that in trying to do the right thing Henry too had been quite selfish. "Is there any way I can make this less painful for you?"

Gesturing vaguely at the searcher's current state explained enough.  
The creature that had at one point been a prophet that had in turn been Sammy Lawrence, seemed to hum in thought before nodding slowly.  
It dragged itself towards the upstairs, motioning for Henry to follow.  
He did so, with Jack right on his tail if only to keep a suspicious eye on him.  
Back in the music department Sammy proceeded towards his Sanctuary, which Henry quickly got to work on unlocking for himself. He couldn't exactly do the little wall trick Sammy did to get around.  
Once the projector turned on and he plucked or hit every correct note, Henry strolled towards the opening shutter.  
Sammy greeted him with his box of trinkets.  
"Is there something in there you need?" He adjusted his glasses as he asked, trying to get a better look at the contents. The searcher nodded eagerly and pointed at a vinyl record, way at the bottom of the pile. "Oh… you want me to play that for you?"

More eager nodding and a wet sounding slap on the ground.  
Well it wasn't much but considering Sammy refused to touch it for fear of covering it in ink, Henry thought perhaps he hadn't heard any music in far too long. Besides the "hymns" he played for his Lord.  
"Willow Weep for Me? I don't think I've heard this one." With careful hands he took the vinyl from the box and began to look for a record player. The dinged up gramophone in the corner was almost beckoning him to play it.  
Once he'd turned it on, the melody was quite soothing.  
His two searcher companions seemed to think the same.  
Jack seemed to finally relax and practically curled up near the record player, while Sammy seemed to bob slightly to the tune.  
Henry simply closed his eyes and listened to the music, only opening them back up when broken words began to sing along.  
Sammy's form was repairing itself.  
Slowly, but steadily.  
Going from slouching and being half submerged in a puddle to looking like he was kneeling on regenerating legs.

**"Willo- we'p for…"** the prophet coughed **"...me."**

Not too long after Sammy's recovery, Henry left the music department. He had a lot of preparations to make if he wanted to do any more actual good rather than having a repeat of the last run.  
Hopefully Sammy would be in higher spirits once they met back up in the harbour. As loathsome as it was to fight him, it was better to see him so full of energy than cowering in a puddle.  
He already knew what he could do for the duo of survivors, but he had to make a few stops along the way.  
Starting with giving Buddy the notebook he carried on his person, and Boris his favourite bone.  
It was a delight seeing the toon wolf's eyes light up as he flipped through several pages of doodles, while he happily gnawed on that suspiciously human sized bone.  
Then he went to Alice and requested an actual "date" with the angel. Not in the romantic sense mind you, he loved his beautiful Linda like the goddess she was. He merely wanted to sit down, have a can of coffee, and talk.  
Let Susie feel normal for a little while after both she and the angel witnessed what happened to the Projectionist.  
Afterwards, he checked up on said ink creature and noted that it wasn't roaming like usual.  
Instead the Projectionist was sitting on a crate, staring at the wall where one of several Bendy cartoons was playing.  
It even chose to ignore Henry when he approached, one hand clutching its chest in slight pain. Still adjusting to what had been restored.  
On his way out, Henry swore he heard a soft _"thank you"_ under all the crackling and static of its speaker.

The Lost Ones greeted him with their sorrowful gaze as usual and he replied not with fear or revulsion as he once did, but with a kind smile and promises that one day he'd find a way to make it better.  
It wasn't immediate freedom like they desired, but it was something more tangible. Something more human.  
The path to fighting Buddy in his brutish form was as harrowing as ever, but Henry's mind was set.  
He left cans of soup out for the Butcher Gang, oiled the joints of the octopus ride Bertrum Piedmont's disembodied head resided in, talked to the animatronic despite having no proof that it actually moved, and even greeted the Ink Demon from within the Little Miracle Station where it always fought the Projectionist.  
Henry could practically feel Joey's outrage at his nonchalant actions.  
His carefree actions despite the hopelessness of his situation. Of their situation.  
Then when he met with Tom and Allison, he promptly disarmed himself and offered them his tools,before accepting captivity without a word.  
Once questioned, he gave them the honest truth.  
Hard to believe, but Allison was not as suspicious as her canine companion. It wasn't difficult to give her the proof she needed to know he was being genuine.  
Pity to see her so crushed that there really was no escape in their foreseeable future. Not just yet. But still a possibility.  
After all, the others were remembering with each gesture of kindness he offered them.  
"Joey wants us to feel less than human." He told the not-quite-angel. "It's how he keeps us in the linearity of his failed ending. He can't accept that he can't win."  
_"But neither can we. Otherwise we'd already be free?"_ Allison sighed, Tom offering her a gentle pay with his good arm as they left the Harbour.  
"Maybe, but giving up hope is the last thing I'd ever do. Then I'd just be letting him win." Henry calmly replied,ready to plummet very soon as he began walking over the precarious boards. "Joey is a man who dreams big. What he never did was have any faith in said dreams… Instead he forced others to do it for him. I'm tired of being his scapegoat, and maybe we won't get out today or tomorrow, but there's only so much he can throw at me until he gives in."  
_"So we outlive his dreams?"_ Allison asked.  
"No. We just outlive Joey instead." With that said, Henry walked forward and felt as light as a feather as he fell into the depths.  
There was one last person to show some decency to. Even the demon deserved a gesture of kindness.

* * *

Joey Drew was furious. For all that he'd spoke of belief and dreams in his many speeches he knew that Henry Stein, that stubborn fool, was right. There was only so much he could throw into the plot before he grew tired.  
His body was already giving in to time itself, and he'd never quite perfected his methods enough that he could make himself a reliable new form.  
Not without risking becoming one of the abominations… Buddy Lewek's Boris had been a fluke. A lucky match.  
The rest? The rest were adamant to not be what he'd set them to be reborn as.  
Even Susie had failed to emulate the character she so loved.  
And Henry? Oh his blood boiled… Why couldn't Henry give in?!  
Joey was so close,so close to getting his perfect Bendy. If the traitor would just let the Ink Demon consume him!

A knock on the door caused him to rip up his storyboard with the ink pen he'd been using. Cursing himself, Joey crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the trash can besides his desk. Already it was overflowing with similarly crumpled papers covered in ink stains.  
Looking at the clock, a few more profanities spewed from his mouth as he turned his wheelchair around.  
Who, for the love of God, was knocking on his door at 3AM?!  
Wheeling himself over, Joey practically ripped the door open.  
"What?!" He didn't care if he was rude. His mood was completely sour and he hated being interrupted.  
To his shock and confusion, he was met with a face he thought he'd never get to see again.  
Nathan Arch smiled down at him with that unnerving toothy smile of his.  
"Hello to you too, Mr. Drew." Joey blinked up at his old friend and rival. He hadn't heard from Arch since… Since he'd bought the studio and the Bendy IP…  
What could he possibly want now, when he'd already taken so much?  
"Mr. Arch." He regained his composure. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
"Oh, just dropping by to discuss something… Something very interesting." The man used his leg to gently push Joey out of his way, arms crossed behind his back as he invited himself in and began looking around.  
Joey glared behind his back and closed the door.  
"At 3AM? Even for you, a punctual man, this is a bit much." He stated as he uneasily observed Nathan as he looked through his storyboards. "Couldn't it have waited until a more reasonable hour?"  
"Since when were we reasonable men, Joey? Especially when you've been so… Cruel to me." The other turned to stare at him, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "The machine… Joey. You took the machine."  
"Of course I did. It's mine." And no one else's. Not that fool Thomas Connor's, nor GENT's. The Ink Machine was his and his alone. "Yours is the studio and even my work. But the machine will never not be mine."  
"Oh, that's where you're wrong. You see,the GENT contract you signed stated that it belongs to the studio… Thus, it belongs to me." Nathan stalked over, arms coming to rest on Joey's shoulder. "It's as simple as that."  
"Not quite. As it is, it can't be moved…"  
"Ah yes. Your little… Project." Nathan chuckled. "Show me. Show me the homunculus…"

There was no saying no to Mr. Arch, and no actual way he’d be able to physically force him out, so Joey complied to his request. Wheeling back into his office where the machine resided, Nathan followed and watched with glee as Joey called upon the Ink Demon itself.  
It stood there, in all its despicably gruesome glory, staring at both men without visible eyes.  
It shrunk away from Joey, just as it always had.  
"It's magnificent…" the awe in Nathan's voice was disturbing.  
"It's a freak of nature." Joey hissed. "Imperfect and incomplete."  
"In who's eyes, dear friend? Here stands defiance to God's will. Life created by the creation." The Ink Demon shivered, holding it's head in its mismatched hands. Trying to block out their words. "Why throw it away so eagerly just because it didn't correctly follow the template?"  
"Because it's not enough! It needs to be perfect! It needs to be all we've ever dreamed of!"  
"We? Oh Joey darling… did you really think creating a living toon would ever bring back your beloved Henry? Did you think he'd ever want you? When he had such a lovely girl that could give him what you never could?" Nathan laughed cruelly. "Henry Stein left you, because you were a selfish boar. And then you were so hung up on trying to win him back with extravagance that you couldn't stop and see what you already had! God above Joey, you were so desperate you hired a mere child that reminded you of Henry, only to torture him the same way you tortured your employees…"

The Ink Demon looked to them again, flinching when Nathan stalked forward and grabbed it by the chin.  
"This, Joey, is not a failure! It's the doorway to immortality. A vessel of timelessness. A godly power that you rejected vehemently." Nathan's eyes were becoming crazed, that dangerous spark devolving into an inescapable madness and anger. "For what end exactly? To give it away to some shmuck that could never truly appreciate it?! Well… that won't do. That won't do at all!"

And without warning Nathan Arch did something Joey couldn't believe he'd ever dare. He plunged a fist into the Ink Demon itself, and tore out it's heart.  
"NO!"  
"If you won't accept this gift, then I shall!"

There was nothing to be done.  
The ink demon shrieked and soon the machine began its work. Ink flowed out of the nozzle, mixing with the distorting melting figure of the demon and pulling both it, and both men inside.  
As the world around them passed by, Joey could only watch as the ink began to claim both his form and the form of the one who dared intrude in his project.  
They both fell with a wet splat, a large puddle, before taking two very distinct newly reborn and remade forms.  
One a towering grinning demon with disturbingly human teeth.   
The other a little devil in a suit.  
The studio was without a narrator.  
This was the end.


	18. What is This? 4th Grade?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two older men relentlessly tease a younger coworker to the point it becomes detrimental to the object of their "affections". AKA Norman doesn't know how to feel about his attraction to Sammy, and Joey likes to fuck with people. Tom doesn't help in the slightest.

Sammy was exhausted. Both physically and mentally, as he'd had another frustratingly long day " _correcting_ " scores he'd been working on for weeks and enduring the band's incessant incompetence.

Oh, and there were also Norman and Joey who, for some mysterious reason, had decided to begin tormenting the hell out of him.

Overall a regular day at the studio, but one that ended up grinding his gears in the most painful way possible.

"Abigail, I'm home..." He called out to his younger sister, now well on the way to womanhood at the ripe age of 15, and ready to _"face the world"_ or so she'd said ( _nevermind that she still got anxious when he was late_ ).

"Dinner will be ready soon! Take your shoes off mister!" She called out from their tiny kitchen. In her desire to prove herself quite grown up she'd taken to cooking for him whenever he came in late from work, as opposed to keeping him on his feet like when she was still unable to reach the stove properly.

He had to admit, at least what she made was palatable. For all that he was good with an instrument and a tune, Sammy lacked tallent in the cooking department. Still he'd miss those nights where he'd make _"drowned pasta burnt Bolognese"_ for the both of them to enjoy. But not as much as he missed his mother's cakes.

"What are we having?" He put his coat on the hanger and kicked off his shoes. The floor looked a bit slick from Abby moping it no doubt. She still hadn't gotten the hang of getting the excess water off of the mop.

"I thought we could mix things up and have breakfast foods for dinner. Like when I was six." She explained, seeming rather chipper. "Those were fun nights."

"That they were..." He joined her in the kitchen, enjoying the smell of cooking bacon and eggs, as well as warm toast and fresh orange juice. He'd kill for some whiskey though.

"They also cheered me up everytime, so I thought it could work for you too, Sambo." And there it was. Astute observation on her part, Abby always knew when he was down in the dumps for real. Getting harassed at work was definitely one way to get him a little under the weather.

"Don't call me that."

"Oh why not? I think you'd like a good samba. I've seen you dance Sammy, you could light up a room with just how happy you get shaking about." She smiled genuinely at him, but there was a hint of concern in her eyes. He smiled back as she placed a plate in front of him, and smiled wider when she gave him a bottle of licor rather than the juice she was having for herself. "Just a little treat, so you feel better."

"You're a little angel, you know that?" He ruffled her hair and chuckled bitterly. Yeah, an angel. Unlike those good for nothing-- Patience Sammy. No need to get upset while eating a meal with his sister.

"Everyone needs one guarding their back." Abigail stated before tucking in, looking up at him with a mouthful of eggs and bacon. "So. Spill. What's got my grumpy brother in a perpetual A?"

"Abby, don't talk with your mouth full." He chastised, ignoring her usage of musical keys to coax the issue out of him. "It's really nothing to worry about. Just work being bothersome."

"It's not nothing. You usually grumble when it's just work. This is clearly something else if it's making you _quiet_." Abby insisted after swallowing her food. "Samuel Lawrence Jr is not a quiet man."

That he wasn't, and that was the give away here. She knew how to read him like a book and it was honestly pointless trying to skirt around it. Abigail was a Lawrence after all. And a Lawrence was as stubborn as a mule out in the field. So... He relented and told his sister.

"It's stupid. It's so freaking stupid!" He covered his face with his hands, frustrated and embarrassed. "Joey and Norman have been acting like petulant children! Mocking me openly, leaving little notes teasing me, heck even talking behind my back about how much they dislike me! What's worse is it's spreading! Even Thomas Connor has taken to mouthing off to his GENT subordinates, and people laugh whenever they see me! It's... It's disheartening! And very distracting!"

He sighed.

"It's stupid..."

"No it's not!" Abby startled him, the look of anger on her face giving him pause. "You're getting bullied! It's not stupid to feel bad about it."

"It is if you're a grown man. Grown men don't feel sad when their coworkers talk behind their back. That's..." Wimpy? Queer stuff? Worthy of a beating? His father would sneer at the thought of his only son being a wuss about this sort of stuff.

"Sammy, you're allowed to be sad if people are assholes to you."

"Abigail Marie Lawrence!"

"Don't pull that card with me. You know I'm right! They have no right to make you feel so rotten!"

She was right. They really didn't have the right to do this... But there was nothing he could really do. 

Well, actually there was, he just couldn't do it to Drew of all people. But Norman and Thomas were another story.

* * *

"You know you deserve this don't you?" Lacie Benton sighed as she dabbed Norman's swollen eye with a wet cloth. Besides her, Jack was helping sling his arm until he could have a doctor check it out for him. He'd landed pretty bad on it and, although he doubted he'd broken it, he couldn't quite move it from the pain.

"I know..."

"If you'd just told him instead of going off being so childish... Oh Norman what were you thinkin'?! Invitin' that devil t' start sayin' those things?! You should know better!" Lacie ranted on, frowning at the roughed up older gentleman she was currently caring for.

"I... I panicked. I still don't know how to address my issue with Sammy." He tried to explain. "I didn't think it'd escalate into him going crazy and comin' ta rip my throat out for it!"

"This is Sammy Lawrence we're talking about Norman. He was raised by a racist Catholic man that taught him gays and blacks are evil." Jack pointed out. "Resorting to 4th grade pettiness to show your crush you like them was definitely asking for Sammy to lose it and get revenge."

"An' Drew joinin' in on the "fun" did no good. I swear that man realized you were gettin,' sweet on him an' thought it'd be just swell t' ruin your days." Lacie huffed irritably.

"Thomas didn't help with the betting poll either. Everyone took the week to piss off Sammy, I swear to God..." Jack sighed.

"My fault. I shoulda' been more sensible... Kid hates me for sure now."

"Depends if he remembers. You both fell down the stairs pretty hard." Lacie reminded him. "Which reminds me, you should be expectin' a call soon. Your brother had to take that kid's poor sister to the hospital to check on her ornery brother."

"Oh... I'm dead for sure. If not by my brother's hand, it'll definitely be by my niece and nephew's..." He pauses, considering his options "Or worse... They'll set Sammy's sister on me! She can be real scary when she's mad!"

Needless to say, after indeed getting yelled at over the phone by Abigail Lawrence and having to apologize to Sammy while he dealt with a broken leg, Norman didn't tease the music director all that much after that incident. And whatever bets Thomas made became less public for fear of losing another molar. Sammy Lawrence had one hell of a right hook!

Joey still went out of his way to be a jackass though. He much liked teasing his favourite employees, and nothing would change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My laptop fan completely failed on me, so I have to transcribe these drabbles entirely through my phone from Tumblr. As such the format might be slightly off!


	19. In The Woods Somewhere (Post-Studio AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world.

Freedom had come with a lot of existential dread and lingering doubts. It hadn't been the oh so sweet respite that everyone had coveted so much, not when they were still abominable creatures made of cursed ink _(and in some cases machinery_ ). Still, for all that they'd worried, Henry had pulled through and prevailed.

He'd not only gifted them their salvation from Joey's nightmarish dream, but also offered them a way to live unafraid in a world they no longer belonged in. He gave them a house, food, clothes, a life worth living.

Never once did he ask for anything in return. A true loyal and kind friend to those who desperately needed such a charitable heart.

"You don't need to repay me. I'm only doing what's right, and besides I got that house after my uncle died... It never really felt right to move out of town with Linda and the girls, and I never knew what I was going to do with it." He'd humbly dismissed any offers to repay his kindness. "You all need a safe place where you can recover and slowly reacquaint with normalcy without anyone judging or fearing you. The location is perfect."

And it was. An isolated corner of a vast forest, with nearly no signs of civilization. Easy for Henry to check up on them since he knew where to go to reach it, but out of the way enough that not even hikers came by often.

It helped that it had a bit of a... Dark reputation. Missing cases, strange sightings, and creepy sounds in the night. A deterrent for sane people with a yellow streak.

For someone like Susie and Allison who looked human enough to pass off as such if provided with an appropriate disguise, it was a bit of a hassle. Grocery shopping ( _when they were in the mood to be seen by the oblivious folk in the nearest town_ ) took longer due to such a long trek.

For others like Tom and Buddy who were living cartoon characters it was a more comfortable experience. They could go out and feel the sun upon their skin without fear of what may happen if they were spotted.

And then lastly, for beings like Sammy, the Searchers, Butcher Gang, and for Norman, it was both a stark reminder of their inhumanity, and a blissful respite from the crippling dissonant thoughts that made them oh so prone to violent outbursts.

In the woods there was no one they could hurt if they lost their senses ( _which was not as common a thing as it once was, but still something the Projectionist suffered with on the regular_ ). In the woods there was peaceful silence where they could wade through the madness and regain their footing. In the woods they could almost be their former selves.

Granted this was a double-edged sword on one regard: The Projectionist tended to wander far and not recall how to come back. 

If Norman ended up somehow stumbling back into society, there would be trouble. Which is why Sammy was assigned to follow him every time he felt like going for one of his "little walks".

At first the once-music director had scoffed and been incredibly annoyed at being saddled with such a responsibility. He was not in a capacity to look after himself, much less a 7, nearly 8, foot tall half-ink half-machine man that could easily render him into ribbons if he set him off. Norman's transition from coherent sentient thoughts to downright feral and highly aggressive behaviour was too unpredictable for someone who's memories tended to evade him easily.

But then, as pointed out by Allison, Susie wouldn't be able to calm him because she knew neither sign language nor Morse code ( _which he'd learned specifically from Norman when he was still human just for fun_ ), and Allison herself was not overly close to him so her presence would only distress him further.

When he'd still tried to refuse, Tom had resorted to threats which he'd returned in kind. In the end it was the pleading looks of both Jack and the rest of the band that got him to relent. But not before barking at them to never say he wasn't a charitable and patient man ( _things he really wasn't, considering his short fuse and unwillingness to socialize when he was in a particularly sour mood_ ).

Once he'd committed to the task, Sammy found that the sounds of nature soothed him. Watching after the Projectionist wasn't too bad either, as he thought the large monstrosity looked quite happy as it wandered aimlessly, occasionally looking up at the expanse of darkening skies. Sunsets seemed to spark something more human in Norman. Got him to sign more and sometimes vocalize his words ( _as painfully gritting to the ear as that may be_ ). It reminded Sammy of... Of times long past. Ones where he'd consider this brute as a bright and very accommodating ( _if not a little annoying at times_ ) friend.

A friend he dearly missed even, for no matter how much they tried, Norman would never go back to being who he was before the studio chewed him up and spat him back out as something some would consider a dubiously smart animal.

The peace also sparked something in Sammy himself. It made him feel more grounded, more like himself, to the point where his form would shift accordingly. Because their bodies were reacting to their slow recoveries.

Over time a few Searchers had slowly become Lost Ones, and a few Lost Ones had begun transitioning into human forms. There was always something a little off and cartoonish about them, but it was progress nontheless. People were remembering who they once we're, and that was more than they'd ever accomplished in that hellhole.

Sammy sometimes could see his true face reflected back by a puddle or larger body of water, but it was a fleeting thing.

At times he could even feel his unruly curls brushing against his neck and shoulders, but they weren't the dirty blond he'd remembered. They were an inky black that upset him slightly, but better than the shiny bald head he'd had for so many years. Less saddening than the yellow glow of eyes that should have been a soft hazel, and much less startling than the sharpness of his teeth. Somehow he always got the nose right, which was adding salt to injury considering he couldn't regenerate his pinkies.

The Projectionist's walks were moments of introspection. Ones where he was sure he'd be able to get his true form back, even if slightly altered.

So imagine his annoyance when one such moment was marred by his selfish distraction...

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd lost sight of Norman, or for how long he'd spaced out just staring at his reconstituted face on the nearest reflective surface, but the moment he noted just how dark it was Sammy knew he'd fucked up.

They'd been wandering for hours and he'd been so absentmindedly worrying over faded memories that he'd just let the Projectionist wander off to the nearest flower patch to marvel at all the pretty colors ( _prettier than old sepia and inky tones that had made their horrid existence oh so much duller_ ). He'd gotten so stuck in his own head that he'd never noticed his charge moving off to explore further and further into uncharted territory.

They'd never gotten so close to the mountains, and now? Now Sammy was sure he'd never be able to find the Projectionist again. He'd failed Norman.

Something which he absolutely refused to let happen. If not out of pride, then out of shame. He'd rather die than return to the others without Polk in tow, knowing they'd add it to the list of things that made him a genuinely horrid person ( _aside from ritualistic murder and allowing Joey to manipulate him to the point of idolizing a false god_ ). That wouldn't do.

Sammy wouldn't be able to live with the scorn. So he trekked further to where he assumed the hulking ink creature had gone.

Henry had told them stories. The ones about the people going missing. Freaky tales that had unseen horrors lurking amidst the trees and skulking in shadows. One such creature he seeked ( _for the Projectionist had become one of these fabled cryptids just by being an out of place being in the woods_ ), but the others he'd heard of, although fabricated, were mysterious and spooky to him.

Having such shluck looping in the forefront of his mind like a bad film reel was troublesome. It made him hesitant the moment he heard anything that sounded out of place.

Steeling his nerves was hard. Despite being made of ink, his heart was very much still human, so he felt instinctively fearful of the unknown. Those silly stories were genuinely scaring him and he resented Henry for being such a good narrator.

With every step further into the mountainside he hoped to see the light of Norman's lens, and hear the clicking of the projector he had for a head.

He was not expecting to hear... What sounded like an emergency broadcast.

It was so sudden and confusing that it made the ex-music director pause in his tracks. An echoing call that spanned miles, like it was being projected from up high.

Looking around his surroundings he saw nothing out of place. Just rows upon rows of trees and a watch tower in the distance further up north.

Turning his head more slowly yielded the same results. Nothing that could broadcast that loudly in sight... **_Until he saw it_**...

At first glance it looked like an old siren. Rough and weathered, rusty looking from a distance. Very strange to be found this far away from civilization. But then he really took the time to stare at it. Noted just how off the towering thing was, and then realized... Those sirens hadn't any speakers. They had **_teeth_**.

As soon as his mind picked up on this very fact, he saw everything else. And then, before he could exclaim in terror, he was up in the air held in a massive far-too-human-looking hand, and being pulled closer to said teeth.

Sammy screamed as he felt the pain of being bitten into, upper torso pulled into this _**nightmarish thing's**_ eager maw, only to then be unceremoniously spat out and tossed on the ground. The shock and pain made him deconstruct into a puddle and, to then aggravate the issue further, the beast stepped down on him as if insulted by the vile taste of ink.

Sammy didn't much care. He lost consciousness soon after.

* * *

When Sammy came to, the sun was rising. He was groggy from the pain and confusion of being violently assaulted by something straight out of a Lovecraftian novel, and the intense light washing over his eyes didn't help.

_Wait... Light?_

Blinking away inky tears, Sammy found Norman staring down at him with a posture that read clearly of concern. The poor thing had likely found Sammy's puddle form and been fretting ever since.

The composer thanked whatever god was out there that the monster that attacked him hadn't found the Projectionist. He wouldn't have had the sense to run.

"H-home. Let's go home..." He whimpered weakly, despite the creature before him being deaf and unable to read his lips properly considering he currently had none. The pitiful look of him must have clued the bigger ink being, however, as Norman scooped him up with ease and began the trek back. Sammy directed him, mostly through pointing when he seemed unsure, all the while keeping an eye for that... Siren-Head thing that thankfully found him too disgusting to consume.

The one perk of his abominable state...

Needless to say, they were never coming back to these parts. Not as long as he allowed it. Some things were better off left undisturbed.

Because, as it turned out, the studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title came from a Hozier song.  
> The person on Tumblr who sends me the great majority of my prompts really wanted Siren Head to show up.


	20. Faded Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories were fickle and fleeting things for the Ink Demon's self-appointed prophet. But even he is not without his moments of lucidity... They just needed a little prompting.

_ The best way to describe it is perhaps as a melancholic summer afternoon. The kind in which the children sang nursery rhymes as they merely span about in play, linked hands forming a minute human chain, and tiny little feet beating a discordant rhythm that was both gritting and familiar. _

_ A positively delightful moment in time where birds flew up high in the still blue expanse of the sky, and where the church bells rang their old awe inspiring hymns with splendorous might. Truly, it was the sort of picturesque day where one could assume families might get together and partake in their ritualistic social gatherings, and other such sort of domestic affairs that they sought to display to the world. _

_ All in all there was a lot one could smile about on such a lovely summer afternoon, but that someone was certainly not Samuel Lawrence Jr. _

_ No, Sammy didnt think he had much to smile about, has he hadn't done so since April 11th. He knew the exact time when he'd stopped, even, as the news fully sank in. His step-mother was dead, leaving him the sole caretaker of an infant sister he had no feasible way to provide for. The funeral would be on the 15th, organized by her gaggle of witchy friends and left for him (an unemployed young man at the very cusp of manhood) to pay for. _

_ There was no reason to smile, even when he'd found freedom from her horrid leeching grasp. Only to scream his frustrations to the world. _

_ But then again, he shouldn't expect anything else. _

_ Life had always been a hectic mess for the Lawrence family. That had never changed, at least not since he was old enough to remember. He'd been born to a newly wed couple (a stern farmer that owned a cattle ranch he'd inherited from his late grandfather, and a kindly petite seamstress that worked for the nicer-off folks in the nearest town), a couple that certainly had a very different way of reering children. _

_ His father, Samuel Sr, was the typical southern macho. Raised Catholic and with a knack for hard labour as strong as his opinions of certain topics his mother rather not have him talk about at the table. He taught Sammy to be the hard-working man he'd grow up to be, as well as imparting his mule-like stubbornness and bad temper often got him into trouble. _

_He was a no nonsense type that wanted his son to be self-sufficient and strong enough to take on the world. Never let others trample over him_.

_ His mother, Josephine, was not of any particular faith (at least not one he was familiar with) and instead focused on imparting good morals and the value of fulfilment. Better to be kind and happy than cruel and miserable. _

_ She was often more concerned with making sure he got to be a boy rather than be forced out of what little youthful time he had. She also encouraged his interest, supporting his love of music and desire to make his own melodies.  _

_ Their general income was nothing to brag about, but it was certainly _ _ enough to pay for an education, and a meal to put on the table every night. _

_ Then one day his mother died of tuberculosis, and his father had packed up their things taken him from their comfy little country home to the unfamiliar urban jungle that was New York City. _

_ Things were a lot harder since that dreadful move, especially without his mother to keep his father from getting so upset all the time. Samuel Sr only ever found comfort not being home, or at the very bottom of one of his dang bottles of whiskey, up until Sammy turned 19 years old. _

_ He didn't hit Sammy much. Just _ _ yelled a whole lot. Said nasty cruel things that his late wife would have surely been appalled by, especially since they were directed at their only son. Their little boy. _

_ And when he didn't, he just got depressingly sad and quiet. Pathetic even, which disturbed Sammy much more than the alcohol fueled hatred. _

_ In those moments the old man didn't even give him hell for pursuing music. Sammy had guessed his father hoped to preserve something of his beloved in the end… Still did give him hell for his hair though. No son of his would have a "sissy haircut" while living under the same roof as him. _

_ When he was 21, his father finally moved on and met another woman. While Sammy was happy for him, his choice of who to date had certainly been a downgrade. _

_ Because Clarissa was the polar opposite of the late Mrs. Lawrence.  _

_ Wiry where his dear mama had been perfectly curvy, sharp where she'd been soft, perpetually frowning rather than smiling kindly, and her hair was a dark straight and bobbed cut, where his mother's had been curly and long, and so very blonde. _

_ The coldness of her gaze had been off-putting. Intimidating and soul-scorching. Sammy hated that woman's judgemental eyes... _

_ Hated them since he'd met her at age 21, and still did now at age 26, when the damn witch of a step-mother had finally succumbed to karma. _

_ She'd outlived Sammy's father, her constant demands driving him to an early grave despite him no longer working such a tasking job, leaving him with a two year gap between their passing to put up with her cruelty.  _

_ And then one day she was just… Gone. _

_ A freak accident they said. An uncovered manhole of all things. A positively cartoonish death that you could find on the morning paper. _

_ An accident that ended up leaving him struggling with a funeral bill, a house mortgage, and with raising his youngest sister who was only 2 years old at this point. _

_ No easy feat for a young adult who just barely scraped by from playing in the streets and in bars for tips, since his dreams all but counted for nothing while under the witch's rule... _

_ Life was pretty unfair, and that more than justified why he found little to no reason to smile, as he peered down at his father's grave after moving away from where his step-mother's funeral had taken place. _

_ A soft hiccup brought the young man out of his thoughts, blinking away tears that stung his tired eyes, as said littlest sister whimpered innocently due to her nap being interrupted by a particularly loud chirrup of a bird. _

_ Only little Abigail could find her sleep disturbed in the quiet of a cemetery, where only the graves of her mother and their father kept them company. _

_ "Hush now… you wouldn't want to wake the dead now, would you?" He murmured to the infant cradled in his arms, the tufts of dark hair on her head a contrast to the simple pink dress she'd been dressed in for the service. Not that the little thing even knew what a funeral was. _

_ Ah the bliss of childish ignorance, how he missed such a luxury. _

_ She wouldn't need to worry about the hard adult life until she hit 18, and by then Sammy promised to himself she'd have a better life than he did. _

_ He'd give her all she needed. Love, nurture, food, clothes, an education, opportunities, and more if it meant she'd be happy. He'd excell where her mother and their father hadn't. _

_ He'd make her happy, even if he had to break his back working to do it. _

_ "Let's go home Abby… Tonight will be another long one…" he cradled her gently as he turned away from the graves and began the long trek home. _

* * *

_ "Play for me Sammy!" He looks up from the correspondence (another set of bills that he has to worry about), shocked to find his six year old sister running towards him while carelessly dragging his banjo behind her. His prized banjo. _

_ He all but drops the letter as he gets up. _

_ "Abby don't drag it like that! The strings might break and fixing them is very expensive!" He calls out as he meets her halfway, taking the poor instrument from her clumsy little hands. _

_ She has the decency to look ashamed, and by god her pout makes him feel bad for correcting her bad behaviour. _

_ The sacrifices he had to make to ensure she was a well adjusted young lady… The guilt would kill him one day. _

_ "Sorry… I just want you to play! You haven't played your banjo in so long…" her dark brown hair is in a messy braid. She'd been practicing how to style it again, and it certainly looked better than the last few attempts. _

_ "I've been busy with work at the Studio, you know this..." He reminds her, pulling a chair for her as he settles back down with his beloved banjo. One of the few things he'd dared splurge on for himself. _

_ "You always are... I miss you..." She looks away, clearly saddened by the time they spent apart. It was so rare for them to share any small moment besides dinner and a story before bed... _

_ Miss Harrison, the kind old lady next door, was practically raising little Abigail Lawrence now. _

_ It left a bitter taste in his mouth. He should have time to spare for his little sister. _

_ Sadly Joey Drew had been very particular with overtime... _

_ "I know, but Mr. Drew always has more work for me to do." He wishes it were the opposite. Those deadlines were starting to pile up and he was hitting the proverbial wall in his creativity. _

_ With so little time to refine the tunes, most of his work was starting to sound like utter repetitive garbage. Only Jack and Susie ever said his tunes held any sort of bounce anymore. _

_ ".... I don't like Mr. Drew. He makes you grumpy." Abby pouted unhappily, looking very annoyed with the mere idea of Joey Drew's existence. He could relate. _

_ "Oh come on I'm not that grumpy..." He snorted, a small smile creeping upon his face as Abby crossed her arms the same way their father used to when he was mildly annoyed with whatever project he had been focusing on. Be it fixing the drains or unclogging the toilet. _

_ "You are, but it's ok Sammy. I love my big grumpy brother just the way you are!" Abigail reassured, smiling in absolute delight when he began to pluck the chords of the banjo. _

_ They rarely had time for each other, but Sammy knew to make it special. This song was just for her. _

* * *

_ A year later Abigail turns seven, and Sammy swallows his pride and meets with one Shawn Flynn in the Heavenly Toys department. He's extremely stressed and tired from working on mind-numbing song after mind-numbing song, and his brain hurts after being exposed to literal hours of low drums and shrieking chords. His hair is starting to get long enough that it's curling more naturally back into the sheepishly messy curls they're supposed to be. It's been ages since he's had time to go to a barber shop to sort it out, so used to having it cut short and gelled back. _

_ Still, as tired, irritable and unprofessional as he looks on a day to day basis, he needs to cash in a favour. _

_ A while ago he'd composed the jingle for Shawn's latest toy line on a moment's notice, when the overly-cheery dolt had all but forgotten to do it despite bragging that he could get both the dolls and song done in no time. Since then Mr. Flynn had owed him for saving his hide from getting tanned by Joey Drew himself. _

_ A save from a chewing out of epic proportions was more than enough reason to make requests of another department's craft. That was an unspoken rule in Joey Drew Studios that every worker knew by heart, although none but Norman or Jack had ever gotten a favour out of the music director. It was difficult to save someone who gave an arm and a leg and so much energy into keeping himself out of trouble (despite his surly disposition getting him quite close to a firing once or twice). _

_ Sammy had, as such, hoped to use this bit of leverage over Shawn on something else of a more… Petty nature. The Irishman was, after all, amazing at smuggling some things into the studio… Things Drew prohibited that could marr the Studio's reputation. _

_ But this? This was of importance to him, especially considering he'd had very little time to prepare for Abby's big day. _

_ "Top o'the mornin' Sammy-boy! What can I do fer ya?" The toymaker greeted, gesturing away with a swift movement the stares of the assembly line workers who spared a glance at the often illusive music director. _

_ "Flynn. I need a favour." He got to the point, which perked the Irishman's interest. _

_ "And what could little ol' me do to appease the big bad composer that makes the organist piss his bloomers on a weekly basis?" _

_ "Firstly, Johnny is an imbecile who has no sense of timing while recording, secondly I… that is to say…" Sammy sighed. "It's my younger sister's birthday and she… she's a fan of the cartoons." _

_ "Ah! Ye be wanting to give a little chiseler a doll then?" Shawn smiled, clearly tickled pink by the prospect of sneaking out a doll from under Drew's nose. He could admire the man's spiteful hatred of their boss. It was one he shared, and one he wished he could act upon as often as the dollmaker did. _

_ "Yes… But, could I uh, request one that hasn't been painted yet?" _

_ "An unpainted one? I… sure, I got some in the back. What're ye lookin for? That Alice gal? Them Butcher crooks been awfully popular these days… Also got me some Boris dolls that could use some love. They came out a bit gammy because of them eejit GENT workers popping in all the time t'a inspect the walls… Damn bastards are real distractin' an ya know..." _

_ "I wanted a Bendy doll without that… smile…" _

_ Shawn blinked up at the taller man, looking somewhat incredulous in such a way that it nearly made Sammy crack a smile at the absurdity. Shawn Flynn was, after all, a constant smiler. All teeth, and wrinkles around his eyes from jovial cheeriness that bordered on the devilishness. The way he was staring at him now was the most serious he'd ever seen the man. _

_ "... Ya want Bendy." He stated calmly. _

_ "Yes." _

_ "Without the smile." He finished _ .

_ "That is correct." _

The Irishman stroked his beard in thought before nodding and snapping his fingers as if he'd had an eureka moment.

_ "... Ya know, I think I know the right doll for yer little sister. Hang on." Shawn quickly turned and left to go into the back storage room of the workshop. _

_ While he waited, Sammy tries his best to ignore the glances of curious workers. Tried not to glare when they begin whispering among each other. They were discussing a few of his… Last encounters with the head of the department. The less pleasant ones that involved a lot of… Poor wording on his part. The "home-made" kind. _

_ He knew he was no saint. He'd grown up around hateful people, been raised by someone who viewed "job-stealing foreigners" as the bane of his existence, and moved to the city where tensions were often high between the white community and the black community. _

_ Sammy had given Norman hell for a long time before the man finally gave him an ultimatum in the form of a royal beating. _

_ And then Abby had told him about her friend Lydia and he'd realized he couldn't let his sister grow up with him saying stuff that'd make her feel wrong about who she chose as a friend. She couldn't grow up the same way he had, hearing how his next door neighbours should go back to their country because their skin wasn't the right shade, or how the lady that worked at the cafe was likely pinching coins because she was Jewish. _

_ Things that sometimes came naturally to the forefront of his mind when interacting with his coworkers, that got him cold stares and cold shoulders or even threats of violence. _

_ Norman was right. He needed to grow up or get ready to lose his teeth if he couldn't keep his unsolicited opinions to himself. _

_ When Shawn finally returned from the back, it brings some relief as it distracts Sammy from his own shortcomings, and it's with the absolute most perfect doll in hand. _

_ His opinion on the Irishman changes for the better. He might actually like the guy. _

_ It's nearly midnight when Sammy worms his way out of Joey Drew's clutches, but Abigail isn't  _ **_too_ ** _ angry. He gets home with a chocolate and vanilla cupcake from the corner coffee shop (because someone stole the chocolate cake he'd bought for her), a candle, and a badly wrapped box. _

_ "Dinner's cold." Her arms are crossed and she refuses to look at him. Not too bad, as with all Lawrences, Abby had a tendency to shout when she was actually pissed off. _

_ "I'm so sorry Abby, Drew's been driving us like cattle these days… But I got you something special to make up for it." _

_ The girl is still pouting when he sets down the cupcake on a plate and stabs the candle through the top. She is also still pouting when she blows it out for her not so silent wish of wanting him home more often (that one hurts a bit). She lights up when she unwraps her gift and peers into the box. _

_ The plush doll was, according to Shawn, a joke to rile up Joey Drew himself during a sales pitch. _

_ At first glance it was a Bendy doll without the iconic smile.  _ _ Where it should have it's wide grin there was instead a smaller open mouthed smile. It even had the little bowtie, but that's where it's resemblance to the little devil darling ended.  _

_ Going down it had a Boris doll's body that had the iconic bendy squeaker incorporated into it. Abigail took it out of the box, gave it a quick squeeze, then hugged it to her chest. She loved it. _

_ "He's so soft and squishy! And the smile is really cute!" She squealed in delight as she rubbed her face against the doll's fabric body. _

_ "It's a little less manic, which I confess makes him a little more endearing…" He admitted as he stared at the decidedly less creepy looking doll. This incarnation of Bendy wasn't off-putting in any way. How curious. _

_ "What's his name?" _

_ "Well, I guess we can't really call him Bendy or Boris, and Mr. Flynn didn't give him one so you get to pick." _

_ "You made friends with Mr. Flynn! See I told you! Told you that you could be nice to foreigners!" She beams at him, happy with this little progress. _

_ "Well… the Irish aren't so bad I guess… Jack and Norman aren't bad company either... That damn pest, Wally though... So very much like the rest of those thugs--" _

_ "Sammy! That's a horrible thing to say about Mr. Franks!" _

_ "....I'm trying Abby, but some of those folks like Wally are crooks! Ask anyone about Brooklyn..." _

_ "Or you're just not trying hard enough to look past Mr. Frank's skin color and birthplace… You're not living in the South with daddy anymore Sammy…" _

_ He lets out a long suffering sigh, cheeks red from being scolded by a seven year old on his less than pleasing behaviour towards some of his coworkers. _

_ "... You're too smart for your own good you know? I'll try Abby, I'll try. Now name your new buddy already, or this is gonna be one lousy christening…" _

_ She pauses, playing with her braid as she stares at her new dolly. After a minute, she looks up at him and smiles. _

_ "Sam." _

_ "You're not naming him after me! There's only room for one Sammy in this house." He protested loudly, trying not to choke up at how adorable his sister was. _

_ "Fiiiiine. His name's… Seamus! Seamus the Singing Demon!"  _

_ A tribute to both him and the rambunctious man who'd made him. Sammy found it quite fitting. _

* * *

_ Something is terribly wrong with him, but he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know, dreads to know, and doesn't want Abigail to know either. _

_ But she does. Of course she does. She catches on pretty quickly as usual, astute girl that she is. _

_ Abby is holding his hair, dirty blond curly locks that now billow out long and proud and oh so very messy. Going to the barbers was a luxury he could no longer afford. _

_ She's in her nightgown and he's in his ratty old pajamas, and somehow she's more composed than he is despite having woken up from hearing his loud retching. _

_ "Sammy what's gotten into you…?" She asks, a waver in her often sweet little voice. _

_ "I'm fine Abby." He tries to reassure her, only to flinch when she accidentally tugs on a knot when she pulls her hand away from his hair. _

_ "No you're not! You threw up… You're throwing up  _ **_black_ ** _!" She cried out, trying to not look at the disgusting looking sludge in the toilet. It smelled strongly of chemicals. "You just shambled into the bathroom in the dark and… God Sammy without lights I thought you were vomiting blood!" _

_ "It's just some ink that soaked into my lunch…" That's a lie. He threw away his lunch and ate a spare sandwich Norman had packed. The poor man had to tell him not to eat his ruined meal.  _

_ No, this is from the damn spill the new kid had spent hours mopping up. "Fucking studio's leaking it everywhere now that Drew installed that… That infernal machine..." _

_ Abigail stares at him, tries not to look at the toilet, then blinks her eyes several times as if fighting tears. She's scared. He's never been so low even throughout the harsh years they both went through together. _

_ "I'm worried about you..." She whispers. _

_ "Don't be. I'll be fine." He insists. _

_ "Miss Harrison said the same before she died Sammy…" She reminds him of her old kindly nanny who died of carbon monoxide poisoning, alone in her tiny home. Not a soul to help. _

_ "I'm not dying Abby." At least he thinks he's not. Later, when the last pieces of his sanity crumbled away, he'd wish he had been... _

* * *

_ "Something's wrong with your eyes Sammy… you look so sick." Abigail can barely look at him anymore. He doesn't blame her.  _

_ He looks like complete and utter crap, and he feels like it too. _

_ Hair a tangled long mess, body sickly and thin and so very sharp looking from rapidly losing weight… His insides burn, his mind is rushing, and the craving… He hungers, thirsts, lusts for the Ink... _

_ The pain from withdrawal is so bad that he snaps at her. _

_ "Could you stop nagging every time I come home?!" He snarls, aching from both his addiction and just how bone-tired he is. He's worked too damn hard for someone who was definitely not worth it. But who'd take him if he left? Joey Drew had a way of getting you black-listed from most decent paying jobs… He'd seen this happen to so many ex-employees… He couldn't fail now. Not when he'd gotten so damn far! _

_ "If you stopped overworking yourself I wouldn't have to!" Abigail is clearly startled by his attitude but she barks back just as angrily. _

_ "Abby for fuck's sake I'm a grown-ass man! You're 19! So stop bossing me around! You're not my fucking mother, you're my little sister for Christ's sake!" _

_ "Then act like it! You've been a snapping angry asshole for no reason! I'm worried sick about you! I miss my brother!" _

_ "You talk as if I'm gone." _

_ "You are! You're never home! You're always working! And the way you're behaving is scaring me!" She turns away from him and runs, likely to hide in her room. _

_ Visibly _ _ crying and so very afraid.  _

**_Afraid of him..._ **

_ He feels terrible, he wants to reach out and comfort her… But that all but goes from his mind when the stabbing pain in his belly regains his attention. _

_ The Ink… He needs more. He needs it bad! _

_ And it needs him… _

**_"...cOmE bAcK tO uS…"_ **

_ He complies, blinded by his insatiable need, and never sees his beloved little sister ever again. _

* * *

The prophet hums as he draws the sacred symbols within their circular frame.

This ceremony is one that never slips his fragile, decayed mind, unlike the fragments of his lost life that come and go as they please.

No he never forgets this, for appeasing his lord, his saviour, is all he lives for down in the decrepit studio.

This particular room he'd found, lacked one such doorway that he's accustomed to create for the Ink Demon to traverse through.

It's some form of flooded office where he can rest for a moment and drink some of his lord's blessings.

The demonic Ink no longer burns him on the way down, instead relieving the aches of something that pains his mind deeply but that he can never focus upon or dishern from the amalgamation of voices that fill his hollowed skull with the whispers. The siren calls.

When he finishes drawing the sigils he looks through the various drawers within the office, hoping to find bottles of Ink rather than having to kneel upon the floor to slurp up the congealed mess.

He doesn't find any ink… Instead he finds a curious looking piece of metal attached to a small chain.

The prophet's curious hands pick it up out of a need for clarification, and the not-quite-lost-one notices an indentation and a hinge.

There's something itching in the back of his mind that gurgles for him to open it up.

_ "...Open the locket…Remember… Please..." _

There is a picture within, of a man with long hair pinned in a braided ponytail, shyly smiling a tired smile.  _ Hair woven carefully by delicate hands that had practiced since they were six... _

Besides him is a very young woman, no older than 17 or 19, that smiles brightly at the camera. She too has a braid, albeit longer and more intricately done.  _ She'd practiced for so long and she'd made them both look like the Belle of the ball even when he'd been so so tired... _

For the briefest of moments the prophet stares and remembers all those beloved memories he had of a past life where he was human, where he plucked the chords of a banjo, where he raised his younger sister, where he did all he could to make her happy at the expense of his dreams and free will.

Recalled when Joey Drew stole all of that from him, by creating something truly nightmarish that twisted all it could reach into something unrecognizable.

For the briefest moment Samuel Lawrence Jr stands in his office staring at who he used to be and the person he left behind…

It's a passing moment, as the prophet's broken mind immediately forgets this revelation, and the creature that used to be Sammy tosses the useless trinket aside, letting it sink into the ink along with his memories.

For the Ink Demon's prophet need not frivolous items, only belief in his lord.

He never notices the Swollen Searcher with the hat pick up the locket and quietly make its way to the Prophet's private quarters. Doesn't question why the trinket is there among other treasures he's collected and hidden over time.

The tiny fragment of Sammy that remains thanks Jack nonetheless... Memories were fleeting things that both cherished, after all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An attempt to flesh out my Sammy a bit more, through some memory sequences that he can't quite grasp.
> 
> Jack has his back though.


	21. Van Helsing's Got Nothing on This Mess (Vampire AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sammy is sometimes a very ugly bat, and his boss might want to kill him. Normal workplace issues.

Hypsignathus monstrosus. Commonly known as the hammer-headed bat (or big-lipped bat if you preferred a more unusual denominator), is a frugivorous species of megabat widely distributed in West and Central Africa. It's the only member of its genus, Hypsignathus, which in itself is part of the Epomophorimi tribe alongside other four unique genera.

The largest bat in continental Africa, with wingspans approaching 1 m (or about 3 ft), and the males being almost twice as heavy as the females. It's a sexually dimorphic bat species, with differences including several adaptations that help males produce and amplify vocalizations. Mainly the differing size of the males' larynges, which are about three times as large as those of females, and the large resonating chambers on their faces that give them such a distinct look. 

The females in turn, appear more fox-like as is the norm of most megabat species.

All in all, information that really didn't help Sammy in the slightest, as he tried to make sense of three different books that, in theory, should give him a vague idea of what the hell was going on with his body this time...

To put it in simpler terms, he'd turned into a bat, as per say of those ye olde queer tales of vampires that were capable of shifting into those little chittering flying rats that flew out of caves and dreary old castles at night… 

But then what he'd seen reflected (because most modern mirrors were not backed by silver or other such pure metals) had most definitely not looked like a squashed-nosed winged rat. It had looked truly like a freakish monster. 

But that was getting a little ahead of himself really...

There were things one had to note beforehand to really comprehend what Sammy Lawrence was currently going through: _Starting with the attack_.

Two years ago he'd been assaulted by what he'd once assumed to be a creature of mere legend, although at the time he'd thought it was a random dog attack because what had taken a chunk off of him looked inhuman (more like a very warped looking pug-snoutted thing now that he really thought about it). 

On awakening the next morning at the hospital, he'd been informed that he'd henceforth be barred from entering such facilities because he now suffered from vampirism, and that his name and records had been archived by some secret governmental agency that then directed him to a sub-civilization of non-humans. 

Shocked and confused, he'd been quickly integrated into a coven that took no time to teach him the basics. 

He was to live life as if nothing had changed, hidden among mere humans, yet he'd be judged as a pest by those that recognized specific documentation he now had to carry for _"security reasons"_ (aka clearance for services to deny him due to his ailment).

Oh and he had to cope with the harrowing realization that food did nothing for him other than eliciting a form of pleasure (through stimulating his taste buds) and that he needed to instead find nourishment in human blood, otherwise he'd either die or go into an uncontrollable frenzied state (in which case he might end up dead anyway because if he so much as killed a person he'd be put down like a rabid dog).

No pressure right?

Funnily enough, Sammy had actually adapted to this drastic change. The poor man had to, otherwise he was screwed.

And then again it hadn't been all that difficult since the coven was less of what you'd assume from the olden tales of groups or communities of vampires living in the same roost, and more of a civil service in of itself. 

It was like having a parole officer really. One that gave you some pointers in the right direction, and that reminded you of feeding schedules.

Feeding itself wasn't as bad either, twice every month in specially assigned locations where cattle would be provided to them by a few sponsored ranches.

What really bothered Sammy about all this was the maturing of his vampirical traits. Specifically the part when one night he found himself ripping out of his clothes and seeing his body grotesquely transform into a quadrupedal flying thing that he couldn't quite put a name to. Hence why he'd come to the library in search of answers.

Still the best description he got was for some African fruit bat that had a face that not even a mother could love.

How could a vampire seemingly become a herbivorous bat, when he knew for certain he'd slaughtered two horses the previous night?

"Found anything yet deary?"

Sammy startled slightly as Mrs. Harrison, bless her for being the supportive sweet old grandma figure that she was in his time of need (and one of the few humans who knew of his predicament and didn't judge him for it), joined him with a couple of books.

She'd taken them both, plus Abigail, to the library to help him figure out about his strange transformations. 

She was also the one who took Abby on the nights he needed to feed because he couldn't trust himself not to attack her. 

He was too akin to a wild animal on a frenzy when he felt the hunger calling, which Mrs. Harrison had stated was normal for fledgeling vampires like himself.

"Honestly, just this ugly looking thing… it's the closest I've found to what I saw in the mirror."

"Ah, the [hammer-headed bat](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/75/Hypsignathus_monstrosus_2.png)! They're quite unique I'd say… My dear husband, god rest his soul, used to stuff them back when he hunted in Africa. He thought they might bring him luck, the nutter." The old linguistics teacher smiled, the gaps where she was missing teeth making it look slightly crooked but no less endearing. "It isn't unusual for vampires to instinctively take on forms that don't quite match their dietary needs. Most who change become similar to a species that best suits their needs. This one I'd say has qualities befitting of you deary."

"That's… not very comforting." His nose had always been a sore spot. Turning into an animal whose face was 90% nose was just insulting to him.

"Don't take it so badly deary." Mrs. Harrison chuckled. "What I mean to say is these bats, specifically the males, are known to be quite vocal. You, my dear, are quite vocal, are you not?"

Well, when she put it like that…

"That's a yes in those pretty eyes of yours deary. And besides, not many new vampires can say they naturally became megabats. You're very well endowed in that aspect."

She took great joy in getting him to blush at such a comment. He could see the devilish glee in her kind old eyes, accentuated by crows feet and wrinkles.

They picked up a few books on the "specialized" area, Sammy vehemently ignoring Abby's questions of why his face was so red, and soon enough the trio was on their way back to the apartment.

Sick leave (which he took twice a month as mandated by the coven) would be over tomorrow, so Sammy needed to prepare.

Because working in an enclosed cartoon studio run by Joey Drew would definitely spell trouble for a vampire that had just earned their shifting ability.

* * *

There are a set of very specific rules for new vampires. Don't expose yourself, don't expose the community, don't expose the sponsors or patrons.

Sammy had gotten pretty lucky, Mrs. Harrison was a patron and one of the best at her job.

She provided rehoming possibilities to fledgeling vampires, and ensured their safety within the communities they'd been integrated in.

She also kept an eye on hunters.

So of course Sammy was quite aware that Joey Drew was a person he needed to watch out for.

Joey Drew, who was notorious for having at least 36 confirmed kills under his belt. Here's where things got tough: Joey knew Sammy was a vampire, so he tended to keep a pretty good eye on the music director as well.

It was a perpetual game of cat and mouse.

A very dangerous one that had just reached a new level.

Because Sammy's overall safety lay within what his coworkers thought of him vs what they thought of their boss's eccentricities.

No one was crazy enough to believe that their coworker was secretly a vampire, or that their boss was essentially the equivalent of a vampire poacher.

And that is what Sammy wanted to maintain. A veil of normalcy to keep himself safe. One that would be much harder to maintain now that he had matured out of the first two years of being a fledgeling and developed such a large and rather monstrous looking shift.

Hazel eyes locked with icy blue ones as the music director locked eyes with the founder of Joey Drew Studios. They drank coffee in the break room, surrounded by oblivious employees, and maintained this tense stare-down until Henry came by to drag Joey away.

Then Sammy would let out a quiet sigh of relief and go back to work ironing out the flaws in his current composition.

Jack would pass by his office to drop off a few new lyrics, he'd point out which needed a bit of tweaking, and then he'd be alone with his thoughts and his sheets up until he had to help Susie with recording.

Then he'd spend a good hour or two conducting the band, catching the brief glimpses of his ever watching boss in the corners of his eyes.

The staring contest would restart on every break, and Sammy would have to seek safety by mingling with coworkers (some of which he could not stand).

Norman was often his go to, as Joey never risked these sorts of behaviours with the larger southern man around.

The projectionist was a very bright man after all, and could dig up dirt on anyone that so much as rubbed him the wrong way.

It was a miracle he hadn't figured out Sammy's little secret thus far.

"Runnin' from the boss again?"

"That man is insane… I swear he's obsessed with me, Polk. It's creepy!" He'd replied after sneaking away to practically glue himself to Norman's side during another much needed coffee break. He desperately needed a smoke, his skin felt tight and uncomfortable.

"Drew don't know no boundaries. Yous should consider takin' it up to Henry." Norman suggested. "Only man ta boss will listen to."

"I wouldn't want to bother Henry because of Joey." Sammy huffed. "The poor man isn't his keeper."

"Sure coulda fooled me." Only three more hours of this. Three more hours and he could go home.

"Mr. Lawrence, a word." Speak of the devil… Joey Drew himself feeling bolder than ever as he moved over to address Sammy in Norman's company. "About the most recent composition."

"Devil's Swing. What of it?" He'd worked hard on it to act as a counterpart to Angel's Tango. One of his finer masterpieces if he did say so himself.

"I find it's going in the right direction… But it just lacks this… shine to it." Joey gestured vaguely "Like it's missing something that'd make it just right."

"Shine… you think it's missing some shine?" Sammy suppressed the need to growl. What was the man on about? Just this morning he'd been happy with it!

Lord forbid Mr. Drew could ever make up his mind.

Norman watched the exchange quietly, keeping a close eye on both of them as Joey gave one of his signature grins. The kind that'd make the little devil darling himself quite jealous with just how much tooth it showed.

"As we're on a tight schedule, I have to ask you to fix it by midnight tonight. Since you were on sick-leave recently, I'm sure you can compensate for setting us back with overtime." Oh, oh dear.

Sammy could now see what he was up to.

By midnight the studio would be virtually empty. Just him, the ever oblivious Wally Franks, and Joey Drew himself.

Oh he was in trouble… Unless he could do the alterations well before, but then if Joey wanted to trap him in the studio where he couldn't get help, who's to say he'd accept any of his corrections?

"I…"

"Well, on with it then! No time to waste!" Joey gave him an overly friendly pat on the shoulder, those icy blues glinting with manic glee as he walked off.

Norman wrinkled his nose.

"That man ain't right in the head… Yous just came back from the doc."

"You know how it is. Only thing Drew cares about is money." And Henry, to an obsessive degree actually. More so than following Sammy around now that he thought about it.

Either way, he had to get to work now, or he'd be screwed. "I'm going back into my office. There's no way I'm sticking around until midnight."

"Best o'luck. I'll be in my booth if ya need anythin' from me."

Sammy needed an escape from their boss, but he couldn't exactly tell Norman that. He was the last person that needed to find out one of his coworkers was a damn bat-shaped leech. The blackmail would be horrid!

* * *

The clock read 23:47 by the time Sammy had finished, and honestly the blond was ready to break.

One by one everyone in his department had packed up for the night and gone home. Susie had come by to give him a quick peck on the cheek before she'd saunters off humming a chipper tune.

Jack had come by to remind him not to stay too late and then been on his way as well. Wally himself was nowhere to be seen, probably cleaning that spill he'd heard about in Heavenly Toys, so the music director was completely and utterly alone.

And he was running out of time. 

Joey was going to get him.

"Damn it… I've been good with this. I haven't even tasted human blood, and I'm still going to get put down by some crazy asshole…" he put his face in his hands and groaned. The tightness if his skin had only worsened as his stress piled up.

Stress-shifting was very much a thing and he really didn't want to chance transforming in the studio to release some of the tension.

With his luck Wally might walk in on him.

"What do I do…?" He could try scaring his boss into letting it go. That bat form of his was pretty ugly, it'd scare the devil right out of Drew himself.

Or it'd just make him step up to the challenge.

A knock startled him out of his thoughts.

"Y-yes?" He chastised himself for sounding so shaky, especially when it wasn't that grinning bastard who opened the door. "Norman?"

"Hey Sammy, I need a favour." The Louisianian greeted him. "I messed up my arm pretty bad while fixin' one o' them projectors. Yous wouldn't mind drivin' me to the hospital right?"

"I… No of course." He was surprised, noticing the makeshift dressings on Norman's arm. They were messy but he couldn't see or smell his injury so it was likely a burn of some kind. Those projectors tended to overheat and catch fire at times.

"Good, I'd ask Henry but he wents home early tonight… Strange really, Mr. Drew let a lot of folk go home early tonight..." Norman shrugged "And even if he could drive, I wouldn't bother ta boss t'do this for me."

"I'll drive, I was done anyway." He left the sheets out so that Joey would find them as they were with ease. "Nearly midnight too, so Drew can't get on my case for leaving a little earlier."

This was the escape he needed.

He owed Norman his life, even if the other man didn't realize it.

The two made their way outside at a leisurely pace before Norman motioned for Sammy to follow, much to the blond's confusion.

They ended up in an alleyway (not dodgy at all, nope) where Normal pulled off the bandages and revealed his arm was just fine. Sammy stared, eyebrows raised.

"I lied, I don't need to go to the doc, but I don't think that butcher needs to know that… Have a good night Sammy, and stay safe." The much taller man grinned cheekily before transforming before Sammy's very eyes, into a truly massive [Mauritian flying fox](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8a/Pteropus_niger_three.jpeg).

"Oh you're kidding…" The larger vampire chittered, clearly amused by his reaction, before flying off into the night. "So much for having something over Polk…"

The music director huffed and began walking towards his car, stopping when it dawned on him. Norman would likely cash in this favour when he least expected it…

"Son of a bitch, that man better not ask for something impossible…"

You win some, you lose some.

As much as he hated to lose to Norman so often, Sammy was at least glad to win this despute with Joey.

For the time being at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few opinions about vampires. Mostly that they should be the more monstrous "turn into humanoid bat" variety, with the added flair of taking on aspects of specific bats that fit them.
> 
> AKA Eps wanted an excuse to poke fun at Sammy's nose some more.


	22. Spooky Stories to Tell in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joey Drew Studio is snowed in, so while everyone tries to keep warm for the night they end up reminiscing about the oddest things they had ever experienced. Sammy ends up recalling a rather bizarre event from his childhood.

"I'm sorry to impose so much Mrs. Harrison. I trust Abigail will behave, she's a little angel I assure you." Sammy fidgeted with the phone chord nervously as he listened to his elderly neighbor. "Yes, yes thank you... Oh certainly! Let her on so I can wish her a good night..."

Susie watched as the tired look on the music director's face melted away to welcome a gentler smile. She could sort of hear a child's voice on the line (his little sister that he'd mentioned a few times). It was quite endearing to see Sammy with such a calm and content expression instead of the usual grumpy scrawl that scared half the band into submission.

"Good night Abby, be good to Mrs. Harrison." The call was coming to a close. "I love you too."

Susie smiled at him and nodded, taking her turn to call home now that he was finished.

"Wally is heating up soup in the break room. The stove's thankfully working." She called after him as she dialed the number.

"Everyone camping out there?" He asked as he looked back at the voice actress.

"Everyone but Joey, that devil of a man actually has an insulated office... The rest of us are sleeping by the stove." She sighed "Thankfully Norman and Grant thought ahead and brought a few blankets to stay warm." Clever thinking and also a necessity, as Grant's office was very drafty, and Norman's booth got cold from the pipework frosting over a bit (since the music department had been a repurposed bathroom) in cold weather. Mr. Cohen also knew the likelyhood of Joey having paid the heating bill. Slim to none.

"Great... Just what I wanted, to sleep in a stuffy room full of people and the smell of that rancid soup..." A soup he'd enjoyed at first (due to it reminding him of his father's cauliflower soup which had little bits of bacon in it), but which had lost its luster on the third week of being asked to take a few cans home. Abby hated the stuff so he'd had to eat it himself. "Don't you just love getting snowed in?"

"Only when I was a child. The snow usually meant no classes." Susie finished dialing and waited for her mother to answer.

He left her alone to go back into the break room where Wally and Norman were passing around bowls of soup. Grant greeted him with a blanket, which he graciously took. The damn studio was absolutely freezing in November. The freak snowstorm hadn't helped.

Honestly he'd loved the look of a snowy New York when he'd first moved here with his father. It had looked beautiful and new, almost magical, unlike the ranch he'd grown up in until he was 11. Looking back now, he missed the expanse of snowy fields instead of the cold streets. He also missed watching a few of the animals play in the snow.

Getting stuck in the studio made him a little nostalgic.

"Here ya go Sammy!" Wally passed him a bowl of soup, which he nearly dropped in surprise, and grinned "It ain't my ma's beef stew and it definitely lacks a spoon since we don't got that many of those to begin with, but at least it'll keep you warm from the inside!"

"I, yes at least that." He sniffed it and grimaced. Pork grease and chunky bits that definitely were less bacon and more cartilage. "You ever wonder how they made this slop?"

"I'd rather not think about it. It's like hot dogs ya know... The less you know about it, the better they are!" The janitor shrugged and went to sit on one of the chairs closer to the stove. Everyone was very much huddled close by, swaddled in shared blankets, rubbing their hands together to keep them warm, or drinking soup.

Norman nodded at the music director once he sat down to join the group. Not too long after Susie was sitting beside him, and he offered to share his blanket with her.

"So, what do we do now?" Wally asked as he looked around. The issue would be sorted in the morning but it was still only a quarter to eleven and no one was particularly keen on sleeping just yet.

"I'll tell ya what we could do!" Shawn called out from his spot, voice slightly muffled by his big red scarf. "I say we pass t'time by indulging in the ye old grand art that is story tellin'!"

"Story telling? What, like a sleepover?" Jack questioned. Sammy found it amusing that he'd swaddled himself in his blanket in a way that pressed his hair tight against his skull, to the point where it looked like a makeshift scarf and ear mitts. "Like when we were little kids?"

"Well we're all sleepin' here t'night aren't we? And ya don't need t'be wee little ankle biters t'go tellin' stories." Shawn huffed "Besides, what better way t'know yer co-workers than share some harrowin' tales? I sure got a few that'll intrigue you folks I'm sure."

"Is it about potatoes?" One of the art department workers asked, only to get a slap on the back of the head and an elbow to the ribs.

"Very funny, that muppet over there's a real comedian coddin like that..." The Irishman rolled his eyes. "Right, you folk ever hear 'bout the legend o'the banshee?"

Everyone gave him a peculiar look, which Shawn took as permission to carry on.

"The tale varies some dependin' on t'person who tells ya. But the way me ma told it to me was somethin' like this: The banshee is a sweet singin' virgin, pretty as a button, a real feek." He tapped his chin thoughtfully as he recalled his mother's words. "Sometimes she has long black hair, other times it's a bright red like fire. Always pale... But don't be thinkin' she's just some little lady, oh no. The banshee is a spirit, one that heralds death in the family. Her ghastly cries precede the death o'loved ones and fill ya with a mighty chill o'dread... And I saw one when I was just a wee lad."

"Ya saw... A ghost?" Lacie wrinkled her nose. "And ya sure it wasn't some regular girl you just saw?"

"Couldn't o'been. She was right outside the window Lacie. And me room was on the second floor..." Shawn shook his head "And I knew it had to o'been a banshee. She looked just like me cousin, who died o'the shakes a few months prior. My pa always did say she might come back as the household haunt, she wasn't ready t'leave just yet."

"So, that's it? You saw some apparitions at your window and think it was some folklore horror?" Sammy rolled his eyes.

"Yep. An' then in the morning me grandpa was dead. Dreadful song she went and had t'sing. I was just 5 too! T'damn beour coulda gone bother me brother instead... He was t'one that used to scare us wee lads with these tales o'ghosts n' ghoulies..."

Well, that wasn't a very nice story. And it likely had a reasonable explanation behind it too. Just a small child frightened by tales and likely still coming to terms with losing a cousin.

"Oh, that's nothin'!" Wally grinned. "Ghost stories aren't anythin' compared to what I found in a ditch when I was 8!"

"Oh yeah? Then enlighten us, oh scare Meister!" Shawn barked back, glaring slightly. "What coulda been worse than a banshee?"

"How about a maneater?" The janitor offered.

Shawn fell quiet and others began to whisper among each other at the claim, before Norman began to hush everyone.

"Go on then... Yous can't just say that an' not tell us."

"Oh man, it was the dang scariest thing I'd seen as a kid!" Wally grinned. "Us tykes from Brooklyn? We didn't grow up with monster stories and such. Our mas and pas told us about kidnappers and murderers instead, cuzz those are like, real dangers you know?"

He took a sip from his cooling bowl of soup, before clearing his throat.

"But you know what kids are like. They like adventure and don't really listen too much cuzz, you only believe it when you see it!" He carried on. "Me? I was with a couple a pals exploring this old ditch that had some neat stuff people used to throw in there. Busted watches, trinkets, sometimes a lost wallet with a little bit of cash in it...Well that day there wasn't just goodies."

Sammy sipped his own soup and felt Susie's arm brush up against his as she got on the edge of her seat. She was excited to hear wherever Wally's story was going.

"Local news had like, been going on about this one loon that had run off from the big house or somethin'. Some big mug who was a pervert or whatever. Adult stuff we kids didn't care for." Wally looked around as he spoke. "Only he wasn't no pervert, just really messed in the head. A cannibal. A cannibal that liked eating little tots. You know, stories like Little Johnny went pokin' around where he shouldn't and now there was no Little Johnny no more? Yeah that nearly was us."

"You found the guy in the ditch?" Sammy guessed.

"Nope! Found my neighbor, Sally, partially eaten and all kinds o' messed up." Wally replied "I figured we were in trouble so we ran like our butts were on fire and screamed the whole way back. Coppers caught the fucker and his picture on the paper still gives me nightmares. If we'd found him instead, we woulda ended up like Sally!"

Everyone looked extremely disturbed at the thought of a couple of 8 year olds finding another child's partially eaten corpse.

"Shite... No wonder yer such a mog. Brooklyn's fucked up!" Shawn winced.

"Hey!" Wally pouted.

"Also your story was misleading. You didn't actually encounter the "maneater"." Sammy pointed out. "That's not how you should advertise a tale you twit."

"Would ya rather I have found the creep that did it?"

"No, next time just don't make it sound like an actual encounter when it's an anecdote about another outcome entirely."

"Don't go bein' an ass Lawrence." Norman called out. "I thought the story was good. Messed up, but good... Granted it don't top what I experienced when I was still in the cradle."

"Oh, this ought to be good." The blond smirked. "Word of mouth?"

"My Nanna never told no lie. Yous won't find a more honest lady." Norman smirked back.

At this point everyone had finished their soup and was practically laying or leaning against one another for warmth. It helped that the story telling atmosphere had all but made everyone forget about the cold.

Norman being so tall and obscuring the stove ever so slightly, cast strange shadows on the wall.

"Now, this happened a few months after I was born. My Nanna was lookin' after me while my mama and memaw was helpin' my pops and pepaw out in the cotton fields. My brother and sister wasn't that much older either, not yet ready to go pickin', so they was in their room playin' together." He leaned back in his chair, a content smile on his face "Nanna was just preparin' lunch while I was layin' in this big ol' basket full o' pillows and blankets, just sleepin' away like babies do. She turned 'round to chop up some carrots when she had this weird feelin' all of a sudden."

Sammy put an arm around Susie as he listened. Norman was a pretty good story teller. Had this voice that just pulled you in. He could almost imagine a little chubby baby in a basket while an old lady prepared food in the kitchen.

"Nanna Polk always had a feel for when things were no good all of a sudden. She'd known when Poppop weren't doing well in the head, and she knew how to pop a shot into a big gator when it got too close to the house. She wasn't afraid o'nothin'." Norman carried on. "But she was afraid. She was afraid when the blade o'her knife caught the reflection o'this big brute pullin' my basket out the window."

Sammy winces and Susie tightened her grip on his arm. The others were quite aghast as well, at the thought of an innocent little babe getting snatched away by some stranger.

"Nanna didn't scream. She didn't wanna scare my siblings you see... Instead she tiptoed towards the backdoor, knife in hand, and kept outta sight o'the man that was tryin' to take me away." Norman hummed as he thought back on what Nanna had told him. "You know, they often tell ya 'bout southern hospitality. If yous is friendly and respectful, yous always got a friend. They don't tell yous about Louisiana ladies like my sweet Nanna tho... They is forged of iron and grief. Strong and protective o'their youngins... She knew what that man wanted from me, an' she wasn't bout to let it happen."

"What did she do?" Wally asked, bitting his knuckles as he put his legs up to his chest.

"Put the knife through his back. She pushed him so he wouldn't go an' fall on me, oh 'course, and that basket well about saved my life cuzz it was damn well padded and didn't so much as wake me when it hit the ground."

"Holy shit..."

"Now, that might sound a little extreme to yous, but I trust Nanna's judgement." Norman began once he noticed the horrified looks on his coworker's faces. "That man woulda taken me somewhere no one could'a gotten me from, an' she wasn't 'bout to lose anyone else to them creeps. Nanna was smart, and Nanna was hard workin'. She buried the bastard where he fell, an' planted a tree t'remember it too. I got to put a swing on it when it grew big enough to support the weight."

"Where were they going to take you?" Sammy finally asked, once he realized no one would do so. "The man?"

"Hm, well I don't know exactly. But she did say it was where my Poppop grew up, so I know it wasn't a good place." Norman frowned. "They did bad things to him, made him messed up in the head an' dangerous. Nanna saved me from endin' up the same way... Don't care if it wasn't the right way t'do it, them folks don't deserve no pity if they go stealin' babies from their cribs t'do god only knows what."

"Well... For what is worth, we're glad your nanna saved you Norman. You're a gem." Susie smiled which got the much larger man to chuckle.

"How's that for a story then? Anyone steppin' up to top it off?"

No one seemed to have anything that quite matched the energy of this... What should he call it? Cultist kidnapping story? It certainly sounded that the man was some underground cultist if he was taking babies to indoctrinate, or whatever... The blond watched, saw no one step up to the challenge, and then remembered.

"Well, it may not be as bad as getting snatched away. But I do recall a rather peculiar set of events from before I moved to New York with my father." He began, the band members snorting and whispering among themselves that it was probably something stupid. He glared their way before looking at Norman who gestured for him to go on.

"Floor's all yours Sammy."

"Right." He thought back, way back when he was 10. Just a year prior to his mother's death. It was all a little foggy but the more he concentrated on what his father had told him about that night, the less his explanation made sense once correlated with his own memories. "I didn't exactly grow up in the city. Not until I was 11 that is... I actually lived in a cattle ranch for a while."

"That explains why you call us sheep." Johnny laughed.

"No, I call you sheep because your job is to follow me, you damn goat." Sammy snarled back at the interrupting organist.

"Ouch." Jack winced.

"Either way, as a child living with a father who raised cattle for a living, one can expect that I was often tasked to help with a few of the animals. Mainly cleaning the pens and, if I was particularly lucky, shearing the sheep." The sheep, he confesses, had been his favourite. They were dumb and cute. "My father usually dealt with the larger animals. When this event occured, he'd just bought a big healthy heifer. His ornery old bull had covered our best breeding cow but she'd not been having calves."

"Was she called Bessie?" Wally grinned.

"The name of the cow isn't of importance!" Sammy rolled his eyes. "It was Felicity by the way."

"My mistake."

"Either way, my father was a breeder, so his breeding female not producing offsprings was a big deal. I was a kid so I wasn't particularly interested if Felicity had issues, I just liked watching her when she had little calves. They were the cutest thing right after the baby lambs." Sammy carried on "The new heifer, Clarabelle, arrived that day and immediately the bull was put to working. My father thought That'd be the end of his problems... An easy fix. Except it wasn't..."

"She sterile?" Norman asked.

"Oh I wish that had been it. I was 10, had seen animals in plenty of states from sickness or wild animal attacks. But never had I seen a cow turned inside out, other than in a damn butcher's..." Sammy shuddered. He could still remember it... Going outside to get the eggs like his father had asked, and just finding this massive dead heifer with no skin on her body. His mother had said he'd screamed like the devil himself had been before him.

"Oh god..." Susie gagged slightly. "That couldn't have been nice..."

"It wasn't. I was freaked out and my father was furious. Clarabelle had been an expensive purchase. And she wasn't the only casualty." Sammy shook his head. "The pen was wrecked, the bull was in better state but no less dead, and poor Felicity must have run into whatever butchered them both because she had a massive wound on her hind. Every animal was spooked out of their minds and even our sheepdog wouldn't come out of the house. Peed himself when we tried coaxing him."

"Did ya find what did it?" Shawn asked.

"No, we couldn't find anything that explained it." Sammy carried on. "No tracks, no trails of blood, nothing. The pen was just ruined, like it had been splintered apart, and Clarabelle looked to have just... I don't know how to explain it. Pop? Like a balloon?"

"I figure your father wasn't too keen on going' about business after that?"

"He wanted compensation, but you can't exactly put the blame on anything if you can't even find a cause." The music director sighed "We eventually just decided to call it quits on figuring out what the hell happened and went on with our lives. But then things just got... Weird."

Strange lights at night, bizarre noises, and horrific night terrors. Sammy's father had lost his patience when he'd found their dog's remains and called the authorities.

"We were all on edge, unsure what was going on at the ranch, and losing animals every night. My father called the cops, saying someone must be playing some seriously messed up joke to terrorize us. He'd made a lot of enemies with his attitude over the years, so I wouldn't have been surprised..." He trailed of, beginning to feel goosebumps as he recalled the final night of these strange occurances. "And then one night I saw something strange out of my window. Stranger than anything else."

Everyone was eager for the conclusion, he could tell. Taking a deep breath, he recounted what he'd been a witness to.

"I wasn't sleeping well, no one was, but I just couldn't settle in bed that night. It felt too warm in my room so I got up to open a window." His 10 year old self had always struggled with the latch on his window, but not that night. That night it opened without a fuss. "I saw... A figure. Out in the fields. Cast in weird green light that I couldn't put a source to. They were tall, and I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, but I assumed man because there wasn't a hair on its head... I just stared, and it looked to be staring back. Next thing I know, I'm outside in my pajamas, staring up at this pitch black figure... Taller, imposing, faceless. No eyes, no nose, no mouth... And yet it felt like it was glaring hatefully at me. Frustrated, angry... It pointed at the woods and I don't... I don't know what it wanted and I was just a scared kid."

He gulped heavily as he recalled how oppressive everything had felt.

"Again I blacked out, but this time awoke inside to my mother fanning me. My dad was yelling at the cops and it was morning." Sammy frowns "Yelling at them to get that damn thing off his property, and to fuck right off since they were so useless at their damn job."

A soft amen from a member of the writer's department. Followed by a chuckle from another one.

"My throat was raw, and when I tried to ask what happened, my mom told me they'd found me outside at the edge of the woods, screaming until my voice went. Screaming about wanting out of the woods. Screaming about wanting to go home... Screaming that nothing here was good to eat and that I was going to die... I don't recall doing it, and my father said I'd probably had a nightmare of some kind. A fever dream even, since mom had been trying to cool me down for a good reason." He bit his lip "It's odd, I'd just fallen ill overnight and everything was fuzzy... I asked why the cops were here, and my father said when he'd gone to get me he'd spotted a weather balloon of some kind in the woods. The cops were there to take it away."

Everyone stared, confused and trying to figure out how these events connected. He gave them a shrug.

"I have no idea what was going on, so don't ask. I was 10, animals were dying weirdly, and I got so sick all of a sudden that I started sleep walking and hallucinating demonic figures. No one ever said anything about the weather balloon in the local paper either, so I don't even know what to think of that." He leaned against Susie "It was weird, but it stopped. Still that thing kept appearing in my nightmares for a while... It faded with time but it bothered me while it was still fresh in my mind."

"Sounds like aliens." Wally pips up.

"No such thing." Bertrum laughed at the suggestion. "Just a bunch of vandalism, fallen governament property, animal attacks, and a child's overactive imagination."

"No, I'm serious! Stuff like that happens in farms all the time! Stuff no one can explain..."

"Wally, there's tons o' things none can explain in this world already." Norman pointed out. "I'm not sure what sorta thing Sammy might o' stumbled upon as a kid... But little green men don't sound plausible."

"Oh come on, ain't it obvious? Cows gettin' killed, the strange damages? The fallen thing in the woods? The spooky figure? The one person who no one would believe being chosen to see the alien? Then the cops just swoopin' in and covering it up? Happened just the same to my uncle Paul!"

"What I saw wasn't little or green. Don't make it another one of your outlandish tall tales." Sammy grinned, enjoying how much Wally was puffing up.

"Bite your tongue! It ain't a tall tale!"

"Sure it's not."

"Boys don't fight... Because I've got one heck of a story that'll make Norman's and Sammy's feel like child's play!" Susie cut in, with a devilish grin of her own.

And so the night carried on, with more stories to be shared. All the while Sammy laughed and listened, content with the situation.

Although... He did still wonder what he'd seen out in the field. Surely it couldn't have been extraterrestrial.

Hm... Yes, surely not. Just a bad dream and some sick prank. Had to have been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was aliens, maybe it wasn't... But Sammy sure saw something freaky when he was a kid.
> 
> Felt nice to have the studio employees get together without the usual hostilities. When Joey isn't breathing down their necks it ain't all bad.


	23. A Wolf's Etiquette (Werewolf AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sammy was pretty sure this was a fairytale in the making. He'd always dreamt of moving to the city and starting a career as a prestigious musician, adored by all for his magnificent compositions, far away from his father's cattle ranch and especially from the reach of his witch of a step-mother. Usually though, fairytales tended to send a fairy godmother to one's aid, not an intelligent and positively massive wolf...

There was a part of Samuel Lawrence Jr that felt like he'd missed out on something very big. An opportunity to achieve more, rather than end up where he was now. Still living in the ranch he'd called a home since birth. Granted his little family had changed after his mother's passing, his father welcoming another woman into his life and both baring a little sister that Sammy often looked after himself.

It wasn't too bad of a life. He worked hard and got to reap the fruits of his labour without much hassle, but it felt... Incomplete. Like he could be more than another simple farmer.

He could have been great.

"I think you're bored of it all." Abigail once said, as both sat by this one big and very old tree that he'd play his banjo under, after escaping the scrutiny of his parents. His little sanctuary of sorts, in the form of a dried up husk home to god only knew what critters. "You're an adult now, and you've never really got to go farther than the town nearby."

"Not for a lack of trying..." he sighed. He'd wanted to leave many times, but there was always an excuse keeping him tied. His father's age, the need to keep the ranch in good condition, his step-mother's discouraging and downright abusive insults... He couldn't leave as he pleased. He was bound by duty.

"Maybe one day you'll get your lucky break." She offered one of her sweet little smiles, the ones that tried to offer him her unending optimism. "Maybe we both will... The ranch is beautiful and all, but I'd like to see the world and make friends."

They couldn't have imagined that their lucky break was indeed just over the horizon. Nearing with each nightfall and each changing phase of the moon. Until one night, it finally presented itself.

* * *

Sammy jolted out of bed when he heard gunshots. The moon was at its fullest and brightest, and he cursed as the light stung his eyes ever so slightly. He'd left his window open to let in the cool breeze, since his room often got stuffy.

Pulling on his coat and boots, the blond rushed downstairs and grabbed his gun, wondering if someone had come back to steal more chickens like in the last few months. His father had sworn he'd shoot dead whichever son of a bitch tried to mess with his coops again.

To Sammy's surprise the gunshots stopped as quickly as they began, and he found Samuel Sr barricading the barn from outside.

"What's going on?" He asked, noticing that Abigail had come to investigate the ruckus, while her mother watched from the window.

"A wolf. A whole mountain of a fucking beast was stealing the hens!" Their father hissed as he made sure the lock was in place. "Need my bigger gun. Fucker ain't leaving my farm with his life!"

He ran back inside, presumably to look for his bigger gun. The one he kept in a safe in his room for reasons Sammy never quite understood. His step-mother retreated from the window, closing the shutters with a slam. Leaving Sammy and Abby alone to look at each other.

"... We're not just letting dad kill a wolf, right?" The girl asked, looking mildly put off.

"I mean... It was stealing chickens." He shrugged. He was pretty sure it wasn't illegal to kill wolves, even if they were becoming a bit of a rare sight these days.

"It was probably just hungry! We can't punish an animal for doing what it has to survive!" Abigail pouted. "It's like if dad shot me for eating all the chocolate spread."

"It's not the same, and I knew you'd done it you little scamp!" He glared slightly in annoyance before shaking his head. "What do you propose? That we break a window in the back and just let it run free?"

"Yes! That's a great idea! Maybe it won't come back after such a fright." Abigail smiled brightly at him and Sammy had a feeling her optimism knew as much sanity as it knew an end. This was a crazy idea.

"Abby..."

"Please Sammy...?" She looked at him pleadingly. How could he resist that face?

So here he was, at the back of the barn pushing over a stack of hay that obscured one of the larger windows.

"This better be worth it and the mutt better have some sense and run off..." Not a minute after, something truly massive jumped out of the now open window and stared at both of them. It was a tremendously large black wolf, as black as tar, with coarse fur and a single yellow eye. Sammy's blood ran cold once he realized that from sheer size and muscle it could easily overpower the big old ornery bull his father used to breed his cows.

Instead of displaying any form of aggression however, the beast stared at them both, nodded its head in a rather human fashion, and offered them a paw (which Sammy noted looked disturbingly humanoid in its shape).

"I..."

"He's offering to shake...?" Abigail was just as confused by the creature's behaviour. "I think... I think it would be rude not to accept?"

"Well... I... Sure, this might as well happen." He took the offered paw. Next thing he knew, both he and Abigal were being carried away by a bipedal thing that looked like a wolf, but sure as hell didn't act like one.

Sammy was pretty sure this was a fairytale in the making. He'd always dreamt of moving to the city and starting a career as a prestigious musician, adored by all for his magnificent compositions, far away from his father's cattle ranch and especially from the reach of his witch of a step-mother. Usually though, fairytales tended to send a fairy godmother to one's aid, not an intelligent and positively massive wolf...

Said creature ran pretty quickly on its hind legs while carrying a young adult and a teenager. Both who were too stunned to even make a peep.

They weren't even sure where they were, since they'd never really ventured so far into the woods before.

After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped by a tree stump. The wolf set them down and stretched, before motioning for them to stay put and going towards a small pond to take a drink.

".... Abigail?"

"Yes?"

"I'm never relenting to any of your requests ever again..."

"That's fair."

The wolf returned, tail wagging like a pleased dog. It appeared to be gesturing strangely at them, which left both scratching their heads in confusion. Noticing their looks, the wolf smacked its own muzzle and then proceeded to write in the dirt with it's big dirty claws.

_'Thank you kindly, you folks saved my hide.'_

"Oh my god it can write..." Sammy put his face in his hands. The absurdity of it all was making him feel hysterical.

The wolf wrote once more.

_'Of course I can write. You never seen a werewolf before?'_

"A werewolf!" Abigail gawked "I thought those weren't real..."

"They're not. I probably just hit my head and am hallucinating all of this..." He yelled once she'd pinched him. The wolf was still there and staring at him with what appeared to be an unamused look on its face. "Or maybe not..."

_'You done?'_ it wrote, sounding quite sassy without even needing to vocalize it. _'As I was saying, you folks saved my hide, so I'm in your debt.'_

"Debt? What do you mean...? Like, a favour for a favour?" Abigail frowned "We were just doing what was right, even though you were kind of stealing from us."

_'Which is why I'm in your debt. I wronged you, but you still chose to be merciful. As such I'm offering you both my services.'_ the wolf bowed, and the two noted the pale spot on its chest just below its neck that made it look like it was wearing some sort of cravat. _'If you graciously accept, I will consult with my pack so as to request some leave for a while until I repay you in kind.'_

"Is any of this necessary?" Sammy gulped. Having an intelligent wolf working for them felt a little odd.

_'Very. It's the proper etiquette for us wolves. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Be it in the good or bad sense.'_ the wolf bowed again. _'I was raised properly, unlike some of the other brutes that call themselves real wolves... A bunch of fools is what they are. Getting shot at and giving us all a bad name.'_

Ironic considering he'd been stealing from a ranch and got shot at himself.

"I think it'd be rude not to accept such an offer." Abby finally said.

"Abigail!"

"Sammy, this is what we've been waiting for! If he can help us get to the big city, we could really start our lives!" The girl insisted. "Don't you want to be happy?"

_'The big city uh? I got a home in New York, I could definitely show you kind folk around.'_

"How does a wolf get a house in New York City?!" Sammy was a little incredulous at the claim.

_'I'm only a wolf once a month, that's how. The commute to these parts is hell with how traffic is like there. Takes about three days to get here, and I usually spend the end of the month with my pack.'_ the wolf huffed _'Which is why I'm consulting with them if you accept. Deal, or no deal?'_

Abigail stared at her brother pleadingly, and even the wolf's gaze was glued to him. Sammy didn't see a way out of this, and then again did he really want to?

"Fine, but we need to pack up..."

"Great!"

_'Excellent, sun will be up in a few. I'll take you back to your home and meet with you in the morning. Keep a look out for a Norman Polk.'_

And so it was.

* * *

The wolf snuck them back to the ranch, where they packed up their things as their father searched frantically for the escaped wolf. Once they were done, Abigail snuck their bags to the big tree they hung out by, and both sought out their father, explaining the beast had fled and they'd tried to chase it to no avail.

In the morning they are breakfast as usual, got washed up and dressed, then waited.

Near sundown, a tall and rather handsome man with only one eye approached them.

"Norman Polk?" Sammy asked.

"In the human meatsuit." The man bowed, grinning rather wolfishly. "Yous ready to depart?"

"Yes." Both replied giddily.

"Great. Let's get goin', before your crazy pa comes out with that bigass gun o' his..."

This really was like a fairytale. Where they got their happy ending thanks to a kindly entity that respected the olden rules of equivalent exchange.

Except instead of a fairy godmother, Sammy and Abby ended up with a werewolf indebted to them. A new start seemed like fair enough of an arrangement to repay them fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took an unexpected turn, so it's not exactly what was asked. Still came out good in the end!
> 
> A more fairytale-ish take on the werewolf mythos.


	24. Water and Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just like how water and oil didn't mix, there was no way Sammy could ever be openly nice to Wally... Or could there?

Water and Oil. That was the sort of relationship Sammy Lawrence and Wally Franks had between them.

Under normal circumstances they did not mix, avoided getting involved with each other, and overall preferred to maintain a general distance.

Like both liquids, they were polar opposites of sorts.

Sammy was somewhat anti-social with a rather finicky temper that could be set off easily, while Wally was highly sociable, very easy-going and carefree.

Where the music director was a workaholic by nature (to the point it became quite detrimental to his own health), the janitor was more on the lazy side (only ever becoming invested in certain very particular interests of his).

So really, the hostilities and recurring arguments weren't unexpected whenever they crossed paths.

No one expected anything less from them.

Everyone knew that Wallace Franks was a friendly person. He was born and raised in Brooklyn and had quite a mind-boggling background that often contradicted itself or put in question what sort of upbringing his parents had subjected him and his sisters to.

Questions that were met with a smile, a shrug and an eagerness to follow a routine full of cut corners, cleaning up spills, ignoring Mr. Connor and trying to avoid stepping on both Sammy's and Mr. Drew's toes.

He didn't particularly dislike anyone (although Thomas's pretentious tone made his blood boil quite a bit), and felt a little off put when others found reason to pick fights with him (fights he could in theory win if he felt like getting into a scrap with any of these fancy white boys who never once so much as got a punch to the gut or a kick to the balls).

Avoidance was the best survival tactic, one he stuck to unless personally blighted by anyone that thought he wouldn't retaliate.

He was a friend you could count on, but also a natural trickster, so if he wanted to be a problem he certainly could be.

The two things keeping him in line were sheer laziness and a good disposition. Why make enemies when you could make new pals? And thinking too hard on things wasn't really worthwhile in his humble opinion… Just look at Sammy Lawrence!

Sammy… Wally didn't hate him (like most people thought he should, considering the blond was such an antagonistic asshole towards him). If anything he pitied the guy quite a bit.

The music director was an aggressive bundle of nerves. A ticking time-bomb that was just ready to be triggered, and it often seemed like no one cared enough to keep an eye on his well being.

Wally wasn't a medical professional of course, but even he knew when someone should step back and let themselves play stupid for a while to combat the amounting stress. Sammy was in his early forties (only 5 years older than Wally) and in desperate need of partying and some no-strings-attached sex. You know, the usual stupid adult stuff that got you in trouble if you weren't legal or if you weren't a straight white male.

Either way, all opinions aside, Wally didn't find reason to hate Sammy. He could understand why someone would carry themselves so tightly guarded when the economy was in shambles and you were trying to make something out of yourself. Although the same consideration did not apply to the other...

Because Sammy sure seemed to find reasons to absolutely despise him.

"He's an incompetent brat with no respect for others! He's a petty thief, inept at maintaining the pipes, sloppy with cleaning and absolutely infuriating in how he brags about skills and smarts he clearly lacks!" The Brooklynite winced as he hid behind Norman, who was glowering down at the blond nuisance currently screaming at him.

A leaky pipe in Sammy's office that he'd been trying to fix had gotten displaced and destroyed a nearly completed composition, setting back the band quite a bit. Naturally the head of the department (who'd gotten sprayed in the face as well) had lost his temper.

"Bite your tongue Lawrence, before I rip it out of your mouth myself." The much larger man between them growled in warning. "It was an accident, no need to go spittin' out such poison."

"You can't keep protecting that little… that speckled half-breed!"

"Now yous is really askin' for me to put my foot up your tight little ass!" Norman bodily shoved the belligerent ink coated man, the indignant anger in his voice pointing to the projectionist beginning to lose his patience. Not that Wally could say for sure, he was still very much hiding behind him. "Apologize to the boy before I deck yous in that big beak o' yours!"

"I'd rather die." Sammy hissed between his teeth.

"Why I oughta teach yous a good lesson on havin' some manners, you obnoxious little--"

"N-Norman that's enough…"

Both fell silent as he spoke up, the janitor moving back from the pair and looking down at his feet in defeat.

He had messed up and Sammy had every right to be angry, since he had ruined his work and consequently screwed over the rest of the department.

It wasn't fair if he got off completely scot free, even if he didn't want to face Mr. Drew soul crushing reprimands.

"I made a mess of things… I didn't pay attention and messed up the stinkin' pipe…" Sammy actually looked confused that he was just taking it for once, rather than getting out of dodge. "Now Mr. Drew's gonna be real mad and it shouldn't be the music department to pay for it…"

"Don't mean Mr. Lawrence gets to go havin' a dyin' duck fit! Hollerin' up a storm like that, you'd think yous went and deflowered his sister."

"Polk!" Sammy really did not like the sound of that. If he went any redder with rage Wally feared he might literally explode like a bomb. "How dare you?!"

"Don't feel too good when others go sayin' shit do it? Even if Wally here is takin' the fall, yous still gonna apologize to the kid." Norman stated.

"I will do no such thing."

"Good Lord in heaven, yous really are like water an' oil! You better start cleanin' up your act before I start usin' yous to grease up the projector belts!"

"Why am I the oil in this analogy?!"

"Must be because you're an unpleasant asshole."

The three turned to stare at none other than Thomas Connor who had a displeased look on his face and a toolbox in hand. Wally looked away, already knowing what was coming.

"Franks, get moving back into that office. You're fixing that pipe while I sort the ink pressure." Thomas passed him the toolbox without any second thought. "Mr. Lawrence, I'd suggest you go collect your things to keep them well away from the ink."

"I don't take orders from you, Engineering." Sammy huffed "I was already planning to do so before you decided to show your face around here."

"Then why haven't you?" The older man raised an eyebrow.

Well it turns out Sammy's face could get redder. That probably wasn't normal, but it did seem to amuse Norman quite a bit.

He snorted and shook his head.

"I needs to go downstairs t'get a new reel for the projector. I better not hear no more hollerin' when I get back." He gave Sammy a pointed look before looking at Thomas "And yous better get sortin' that pressure issue. If any more pipes burst in this little ol'department we might get another flood, and we still don't got no pump switch installed yet now do we?"

"At the end of the month that's getting sorted. For now, we do our jobs." Thomas huffed and moved to go check the utility shaft where most of the pressure gauges for the music department were located.

Wally watched quietly as both older men went their separate ways, leaving him alone with Sammy.

"Well,what are you standing there for? Go fix your fuck-up." The blond snapped at him as he went to pick up an empty box from the closet and began to stomp his way back to his messy office.

The Brooklynite gulped and took the toolbox he'd been given, hoping this wouldn't take long.

The thought of being alone in a room with Sammy when he was in a terrible mood wasn't particularly appealing.

Especially when he was pissed at him.

It was just one measly little pipe.

How hard a fix could it be?

Stepping inside, the janitor winced. The floor was absolutely coated in ink and the spill was beginning to spread.

Sammy was dragging his desk away, leaving marks on the wood that were then hidden away by the growing puddle. The bin he'd used to put under the flow was full to the brim and spilling out in rivets.

"Franks! Close the damn door and put that curtain under so it doesn't end up going into the actual band room!" The music director called out, startling him slightly.

"Oh, uh right. Contain the issue an'... Junk." He grabbed the curtain, something Sammy had put up himself to cover his office window because he couldn't be bothered to mess with the rickety shutters, and stuffed it under the crack of the door once he closed it.

There was a loud click but he elected to ignore it since he had his keys. He could just unlock it later.

"You need any help dragging that?" He asked as he began to look through the toolbox for a wrench.

"Just do your job."

"Right…"

They fell into silence, where Wally tried to figure out where exactly along the pipe did he actually have to sort, and where Sammy muttered to himself as he tried to salvage his papers.

The leak wasn't too bad all things considered. There was little to no pressure, which meant there might be a block somewhere else but that was why Thomas was checking in the utility shaft.

He just needed to fix this, tighten that, twist this doodad and turn that knick-knack… He winced when he heard papers crumple and get tossed into a wastebasket.

"Damn it, not one fucking sheet… I swear I had some notes somewhere… where did I put those…" The composer was going about trying to find his stuff, looking through a filing cabinet that looked just as disorganized as Wally's dresser. "Was it in E? Or… L? Do I even use the separators?"

It was amazing really, how easily Sammy seemed to lose track of things.

He often yelled at the janitor for misplacing his keys, yet here he was murmuring and rushing about all scatterbrained.

It was a little ironic.

"What are you staring at, Franks?!"

"Hm?" He hadn't even noticed he'd been looking. "Oh uh, was just gonna say this is almost done."

"Good. I want you out as fast as possible, so get that done and clean this muck so I don't have to see you for the rest of the day."

"Yeah yeah, this whole pipe stuff ain't too bad when the ink aint--" a loud groan interrupted him abruptly, and even Sammy seemed to pause to look up.

Both stood there, slightly alarmed by the sound.

"What was that?" Sammy asked.

"I…" Wally frowned and listened closely. It sounded almost like, like… "Oh crap."

Another much louder groan and then suddenly the Brooklynite was on the floor, ears ringing and mind blank from taking a sudden hit.

The pipe had completely burst now, due to a sudden change in pressure, leaving the two with a rapid cascade of ink.

"What did you do now?!" He heard once his hearing returned, but he didn't respond. Instead he sat up and stared at the pool of ink all around him. Where he sat it was steadily rising to his knees, and it was already covering Sammy's feet completely.

The office was filling up like a tub, and quickly.

"Oh boy…" he got up onto shaky feet and made for the door, wincing when he realized it had indeed locked.

He went for his keys but froze when he found them gone. "Shit, shit shit shit shit!!!"

"What now?!"

"I think we're in a bit of a pickle!"

"Why am I not surprised?" Sammy rolled his eyes, moving over to try the door. "Where are your keys?"

".... Uh…"

"Are you serious?" The blond groaned and began to try pulling the stuffed curtains from under the door to get rid of the flooding problem. The color draining from his face when he realized they wouldn't budge. "No…"

Wally bit his lip as he watched Sammy tug harder and then try the door handle with a little more urgency.

"No, no no no! I'm not drowning in my own office!" The music director let go of the handle and instead began to bash his shoulder against the door to no avail.

It wouldn't budge. "FUCK!"

Thinking quickly (and trying not to stare at the ink slowly raising up to halfway up his legs and nearing knee height), Wally began looking for his keys.

"I just had them!" He'd checked before entering the office. They must have fallen out when the pipe exploded and threw him down, so they had to be somewhere in the pooling mess. "Come on…"

He was practically on his knees searching while Sammy continued to assault the door.

There was no one to hear the noise, and if they didn't find a way out soon… Well… Wally's aunty Tess once told him drowning was a painful and far too long a death.

"This isn't the time to roll around like a pig in mud!" The blond shrieked at him, to which he couldn't help look back with a glare.

"I'm lookin' for my keys! They're somewhere in here!"

"Then move aside!" Sammy joined him and began to frantically palm the floor, trying to find the illusive circular keyring "If we survive I'm getting you a better ring!"

"If we survive you won't have to! Cuzz I'll be outta here!" Drowning was definitely not on the job description. This was good enough a reason to quit right?

"I'll believe it when I see it happen!"

No matter how much they desperately searched however, no keys could be found in a pool that now reached well above their waist.

Realizing just how dire their situation was becoming, both men looked at each other with dawning horror.

It was a matter of minutes… their lives were going to end in minutes.

Wally felt at a loss for what to do, while Sammy… Well the blond was already under enough pressure as it was, so naturally he broke.

"No… I can't die like this!" Fat tears began to run down his face as despair started setting in.

"Hey now, I know this ain't ideal but--"

"Ideal? Ideal?!" Sammy grabbed at his own hair and began to tug while he hiccuped hysterically. "I'll tell you what's not ideal! Drowning in this chemical mishap, with some brat from Brooklyn while my 16 year old sister is none the wiser at home, probably thinking 'Geeh I wonder where Sammy is, he usually calls if he's staying at work', only to then find out on the local paper the next morning that she's absolutely alone with no one to care for her! That! That isn't ideal!"

".... Oh you actually have a sister? I thought Norman was just provokin' you…"

"I WILL STRANGLE YOU WELL BEFORE YOU DROWN YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"OI DON'T YOU GO CALLING MY MA A BITCH, SHE'S AN ABSOLUTELY SWELL LADY!" He yelled back, ignoring how both of them were now up to their chests (well he was starting to float since Sammy was taller than him) in ink. "HOW WOULD YA LIKE IT IF I CALLED YOUR MA A BITCH?!"

The blond head of the department screeching and lunging for him was all the warning Wally got before the two ended up tumbling in, heads fully submerged and bodies flailing as they attempted to restore their mothers' honors (if anything they probably looked like little kids fighting in a puddle while their parents looked away in embarrassment).

They only came back up to gasp for air and push themselves away from one another.

"Ok that was not my best idea!" Sammy coughed and looked around. "I can barely see the doorframe or the edge of the window… We're going to die in here and it's all Drew's and that infernal machine's fault!"

"... I." Wally paused "Wait, I ain't included in that?"

"No?"

"But the pipe, and what you were tellin' Norman and the fighting just now…"

"I was pissed because you aggravated an issue I already had! You also stole my sister's birthday cake that I spent money on, are a braggart of the worst kind, and a troublemaker, but fuck I'm not gonna blame you for this shitty situation!" Sammy threw his hands up in disbelief, yelping once he lost balance. He righted himself and looked back at Wally. "And the fighting was because you called my dead mother a bitch."

"Oh… My condolences… also that cake was yours? Man good taste! Nice stuff really… I uhm… I donno what to say… I just thought you hated me."

"... Well if we're going to die I might as well be honest." Sammy sighed "I don't hate you Wally. I just find you aggravating. You're an impossible optimistic guy in a world that eats brats like you for breakfast, lunch and dinner. If someone isn't hard on you, how are you meant to learn how to survive out there?"

"... That how you were taught?"

"..."

"Then no worries Sammy. I'm from Brooklyn! We're made of durable stuffs! Like our uh… like… roaches!"

"Durable like roaches… how reassuring…" Sammy held a hand up to reach for the ceiling. They were going to lose air in seconds. "It's the same as saying glass is strong unless it meets with a hammer…"

Wally stared at him before something clicked. The toolbox!

"Glass, hammer, the window!"

"Hm?"

"Sammy you're a genius!" The janitor took a deep breath and dove down to the floor. He blindly groped around for the toolbox and then for the hammer inside it.

He resurfaced to take another big gulp of air before showing his companion the hammer and diving back down.

All it took was a knock on the side of the glass for the whole thing to come down. Thank God for Joey Drew's not so safe work ethic and construction jobs!

* * *

Thomas Connor was having a rotten day. He'd gone down to figure out what the pressure issues were all about in the utility shaft connected to the music department and the sewers, and had then rushed to get Joey to bring him down and show him the root of the problem.

He'd become irate when he realized the man had turned on the machine during maintenance, and it took a newly returned Norman and a mildly concerned Jack to talk him out of kicking his employer's ass.

"With how irregular the pressure has been, turning on the machine was grossly negligent on your part! The more fragile pipes could have burst and then we'd be faced with catastrophic failure all around the studio!" He practically roared at the impassive grinning bastard. "Have you any idea how unstable the floors currently under construction are?! The building could collapse!"

"But it didn't."

"But it COULD have!"

"And yet it didn't." Joey's grin widened. "So I don't see what the big deal is, Mr. Connor."

"Sir I really think you should consider what he's trying to say. For uh, for everyone's safety…" Jack tried, only to be shrugged off with a wave.

"Mr. Fain I see no reason to worry. No catastrophic failure has occurred, and no one has gotten hurt." Joey insisted. "It's as they say. No harm no foul."

"No harm no foul?! What kind of business owner doesn't consider their workers's safety?!"

"Mr. Connor…" Joey rolled his eyes but stopped once he heard what sounded like a loud bang, before the band room was suddenly inundated by a massive wave of ink and random junk. Among said junk, lay a coughing and very disoriented Wally Franks (still holding a hammer) and Sammy Lawrence.

The foursome that had been arguing were now coated in almost as much ink as the pair, and looking stunned.

Once the coughing subsided, Wally raised the hammer in triumph.

"We're alive!" He dropped the hammer and flopped his arm back down weakly.

"Huzzah…" Sammy rubbed at his face tiredly before looking over at their audience. Once his eyes locked with Joey's, he seemed to regain all strength. "DREW."

"Shit." Joey turned around swiftly and began limping away at a considerable speed with aid from his cane, while Sammy scrambled onto his feet and began running after him.

"WE NEARLY DROWNED! YOU AREN'T GETTING AWAY SO EASILY! COME BACK HERE!"

"Someone cancel my appointments!"

"DREWWWW!!!!"

Norman clicked his tongue and shook his head while Jack helped Wally onto his feet and asked if he was ok.

"Oh, I'm good!" The Brooklynite smiled "Nearly drowned with Sammy, but peachy!"

"You nearly drowned?!" Thomas stared in disbelief.

"Yeah… but it's good. I broke a window but other than that everything should uh, be repairable I think? Might need a lot o' bleach to clean up… but you know." Wally shrugged.

"Should I ask what abouts happened in that office when yous was both alone in there?" Norman questioned "Besides nearly drownin' in Joey's hubris?"

"Uh… oh, you're asking if Sammy gave me any trouble aren't ya?" Wally shook his head "Not really. He was even nice to me for a little bit!"

"Nice?" Norman and Thomas both exchanged looks "To you?"

"Oh Geeh, I should get him checked, he might have swallowed ink and become delusional…" Jack whispered to himself in concern.

"Ye, nice! Sammy Lawrence was nice to me in a situation where we thought we were gonna die, so it had to have been genuine!" The janitor grinned. "But I'll bet by Monday he'll be back to being a grouch. Probably for the best… saying Sammy is nice is like saying water and oil mix."

Thomas stared at him before snorting.

"They do mix."

"What…?"

"Water and oil mix. It just takes the right conditions." He shrugged "Thought you went to college."

"Oh come on you're yanking my leg!" There was no way those two mixed, just as there was no way Sammy could be openly nice to Wally.

Could there?

The world might never know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, Sammy is 40 in this and Wally is 35. If it seems weird that Sammy calls him kid and brat, that's just how he rolls.


	25. Love Bites (Zombie AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was every man for himself down in hell, and yet Norman still found the time to care for others.

If there was something Norman had learned from his pops, it was that it really paid off to be a bit of a Swiss army knife when it came to skills.

Between the pseudo-military training, Norman's own uncanny ability to hide in plain sight and stalk around silently, and the multiple things he knew that made him basically self-sufficient, he was a good (if not the best) person to be allied with in this sort of situation.

Which really begged the question of why he was doing this anymore.

The world had ended. The dead rose out of their graves with a taste for man beef, spread a strange infectious disease that made you switch to the brain-munching side, and then society had collapsed.

It had happened so quick that he and everyone in the studio had been trapped.

New York was no place to survive a zombie apocalypse, and Joey Drew Studios wasn't stable enough to even serve as some sort of safe haven.

Everything fell into place of this new world order in a matter of weeks, and the few that could hole away did their best to survive on their own.

It was every man for himself down in hell, and yet Norman still found the time to care for others.

He'd established trading systems with groups within the studio, and even shared accomodations with whomever was desperate enough to engage socially.

They never stayed. He didn't mind.

Those who ended up as those gruesome things were put down and mourned, but otherwise everything was strictly business.

And then Sammy happened.

Sammy Lawrence, once head of the music department now the very last to have managed to escape down into the lower floors after the hoard overwhelmed his group, was not the easiest person to get along with.

He complicated things with his ornery disposition and volatile temper, but he was a decent conversationalist when he didn't shove his own foot in his mouth and he had connections with the survivor group down in the Harbour.

He could hold his own well enough in a fight that Norman was sure he had his back, and with help that didn't seem too keen on leaving the projectionist often got a bigger hawl of supplies when they both went scavenging.

It was a mutual agreement. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. And soon enough it was Polk and Lawrence instead of just Norman going on his usual duties.

And that evolved further.

In the lonelier nights, there was more to be done than just share a cot for warmth

Call it desperation, call it basic human needs, they were more than just companions or allies.

They were partners.

No matter how much they bickered, it was almost always in a loving fashion.

Like an old married couple…

Of course, nothing good ever lasted.

Not in the literal end of times.

* * *

Norman hummed as he heated up some bacon soup in the stove he'd managed to fashion out of a few parts and scrap. The Bendy clock on the wall read that it was half past eleven, so he knew Sammy must be aching for some grub.

He'd not been doing well. Not since he came back from his last solo run to the Harbour.

Norman knew why, but let the other keep quiet about it. He knew the ex-music director would admit to it soon. Especially with the speed of his degradation.

He'd caught him coughing blood just an hour prior.

Three more and he'd turn. Like the rest of them had, before Norman put them down.

"Soup's almost done." He looked over at their shared cot, where Sammy was curled up under several ratty blankets.

He was shivering weakly, trying to breathe with lungs that were steadily filling with fluid. The raspy wet sounds painful to the ears.

"M'not hungry…"

"Oh, we both know that ain't true." Norman continued to stir the pot. "Might as well gimme a chance don't yous thinks?"

"Norman…"

"Sammy I know the symptoms…" he poured some into a bowl. "I'm not mad, just sad yous would rather waste away like this…"

"D-didnt want to bother… Was s-stupid and…" he coughed up some gunk. Choking slightly on his own blood and whatever else was coming up. "And got b-bit. D-deserve it…"

"N'aw… Don't go bein' so harsh to yourself. Shit happens." He walked closer and set down the bowl. Sammy's eyes were red and starting to bleed. His stage of infection was progressing quite rapidly. "Eat… Yous going to be famished soon enough, might as well fill you up a bit before it happens."

"You shou-should put me down." The blond reached for the soup, slurping it up eagerly. Nerve damage, he couldn't feel it burning his mouth or lips.

"Woulda asked me before if yous really wanted that." Norman stretched lazily.

"You're right… I uh, call me p-petty but… I wonna t-take Joey down with me." He coughed and spat out a thick glob of indescribably foul-smelling tar colored blood. Gross. "If I'm g-gonna end up like t-the rest of those things… I wonna e-eat the greedy fuck w-who left us to die…"

"I can respect that. I'll help yous with that." He reached out and entwined their fingers. The blond seemed to appreciate the gesture.

"You t-think I'll be a-able to get him?"

"Knowin' you? I'd say yous got a pretty good chance…" he chuckled.

"Flatterer…" Sammy laid back down and closed his eyes, suppressing another cough and instead letting Norman thread his fingers through his messy hair. "Just don't end up le-letting bite you… T-this shit's painful..."

"Noted… Sleep well Sammy." He planted a kiss on his partner's sweaty forehead. "Love you."

"Lo-love you too…"

* * *

"Norman that's disgusting." Susie was slightly appalled, but no less opposed to watching what used to be Sammy Lawrence dig its teeth into a very much dead Joey Drew's neck.

"Yep." Norman shrugged. Both of them had been bit in an altercation with a hoard up in the Heavenly Toys department, but that hadn't deterred them from reaching their end goal. Joey's office.

Susie was the newest ally he'd acquired, and had been dead set on killing Drew since he'd damned them all.

It was a shame their quest for revenge ultimately doomed them both as well, but hey… Sammy seemed pretty happy to devour his ex-boss as a mindless corpse. It couldn't be that bad.

"You think we'll turn fast enough to get in on it?" The petite brunette pointed at the feasting zombie. "As the ultimate fuck you to Joey?"

"Who knows… Took Sammy five hours to turn." He did feel a bit sluggish, so it was definitely taking effect. "Least he hasn't snapped at us in a while. Think we might be startin' to smell like the rest of 'em…"

"Damn… Oh well, Joey's probably not a five star meal anyway…"

"Probably not."

The world had ended. The dead rose out of their graves, Sammy was one of them and soon Norman and Susie would be too.

He wondered if his zombified self would remember his fondness for either, or if it would recall any of the skills he'd had.

Probably not.

It was every man for himself down in hell, and yet Norman still found the time to care for such things.

Funny how some things just didn't change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A zombie love story and a sickfic in one. Some prompts I get just fit the same slot!


	26. Waking Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The worst nightmare is the nightmare that continues even when you wake up." --Mehmet Murat ildan

No matter how much the hulking beast that was the Projectionist walked (or how far its warped mind perceived that it went), the one thing that it could be truly certain of was the neverending pain that permeated its skin and old bones, that followed every step with a diligent sort of precision. 

A truly terrible and wretched notion indeed, as walking was all it knew to do anymore… 

With a gaze lost to the expanse of the soundless halls ahead, and its thoughts long since seized from a lack of…Something...

A stimulus? A purpose perhaps? It had to be one of those, but it couldn't really recall which was correct.

It didn't know if it had ever known the answer to its plight at all.

But walking? Walking came easily! 

Not that it wasn't a harduos task, mind you, just not so easy for the semi-mechanical abomination to forget.

One limb after the other, the creak of old joints and the sting of stiff muscles. 

The dull ache at the base of its hips that sharpened as it climbed all the way to the base of its strained neck. 

The painful throb of something squishy-but-not-quite encased in metal, and driven by the soundless clicking and blinking of things it could fix but not put a name to.

Walking was both easy and hard, but necessary.

If it could walk, it would be safe. If it could walk, it could keep an eye on its many projectors. If it could walk, it could defend itself and its many, many, responsibilities…

So walk it did, no matter how much the burden of it all hurt its patchwork body.

To anyone with a somewhat intact sanity, traversing the halls was a tedious and mind numbing act. Not that there was much that the Projectionist thought about anyway. It's mind was… Buzzing, but not with any musings of a past life. It was numb in a way its body could never replicate. 

Fragmented after going so long missing a vital piece of itself. A soul stagnated from the splintering of its essence, as well as the nonsensically repetitive motions of a lethargic routine.

Long ago this creature was once told that madness was the act of repeating an action hoping to achieve different results. If that was so, then this wretched being was the maddest of them all. 

Lost to a looping cycle of its own, doing things that it should no longer care for.

Because why tend to the projectors? Why hunt for intruders? Why search for a part that was floors above, well beyond its reach?

Yes, the Projectionist must be mad. So mad that it no longer could do much more than act out the same motions over and over again. 

Couldn't do more than walk the halls and redo its tasks… A looping reel.

Following tired feet with a blazing light and aching muscles that never rested.

How tragically ironic. 

An infinite paradox within another.

Until one day it got a breath of fresh air.

The lift was a tool of the horned angel. A contraption that it had once used, as the man it no longer recalled having been. To the Projectionist however, it was merely a source of annoyance.

A means for intruders to trespass in its corner of the studio. An heinous apparatus of mayhem and frustration. 

It caused it to feel things that swelled in its empty chest cavity, until they became nothing more than a senseless rage.

The kind that made its hackles raise with territorial trepidation, which quickly became the distinct urge to fight over flight.

The Projectionist could not recall being a man, but it could instinctively recall being an animal.

A one of a kind apex predator that stalked the halls with reckless abandon. And anything that stepped foot in its pooling maze was fair game.

The things, miserable creatures that they were, tended to come from that hellish metal box. 

It made the ink in its pool vibrate with such force that it flooded its senses in a most confusing way. 

Overwhelming and unpleasant all on its own, but with the added dilemma of some half-baked critter crawling right in to seek out its most coveted treasure:  **Its many hearts.**

The Projectionist loathed all who thought they could steal its heart twice.

Added theirs to the expanding collection dotted all around its many inky roosts.

Thus the lift was deemed an enemy spawning ground, one that the hulking semi-mechanical beast did not trust in the slightest, but one that it kept an eye on nonetheless… If just to have some peace of mind. As shattered as it may be.

Imagine then, how jarring it was, for a creature that did little else than roam, maim, and maintain, to find such a vile blight baring it's gaping maw at it in broad studio light.

For the first time in years, its routine was completely broken, with the Projectionist standing there just staring at the open lift with a stalling empty mind.

It did not know what to do. What to expect.

In a situation like this, what was there really to do? The distrust it felt of the lift coupled with its sudden and unexpected behavior was certainly quite troubling for a creature of the Projectionist's caliber.

So terribly dulled from its stagnant pattern that it needed time to even realize such an event was abnormal to begin with.

Once it clicked that, yes, the lift should not be in its domain and showcasing its hungry maw so pridefully, it did the only thing it knew to do to anything that offended it.

It shrieked aggressively and rushed it.

Now, once upon a time, a man by the name Norman Polk would have stared at this scene and bellowed with disbelieving laughter.

To see such a frightfully powerful beast struggle with something so mundane as an empty elevator… It would have tickled him positively funny.

Perhaps reminding him of this big old bully of a gator that used to sun itself near the drinking hole his old pops used to plant some of the best sugarcane in all of Louisiana (or so he boasted). Big and strong, enough so that it could snap a man's arm clean in half with just one bite, yet dumber than half a box of marbles.

That lump of gigantic muscle had gotten it's jaws stuck in so many crawdad traps that it was a miracle it had grown so big and strong at all. Lucky bastard that brute… the same could be said for the Projectionist.

If good old Norman could have witnessed this hulking horror struggle in the lift like it was fighting some battle of titanic proportions, he would have wondered how it hadn't gotten itself killed yet.

Sadly Norman could never question such things, as he himself was the abominable creature he would have likely found so humorous.

The mind was a fragile thing indeed.

One so incomplete as his, made the Projectionist truly seem like a dumb animal at best…

As the object-headed bruiser calmed down after its initial fruitless assault (in which it had toppled over and only further distressed itself), it began to attempt to right itself. Looking so pathetic like a turtle stuck on its back, until flailing limbs caught the bars of its source of frustration, and pulled with all it's might.

The thudding of heavy feet against the lift flooring sent vibrations that jolted its wires uncomfortably, making it screech at nothing as it turned to look for whatever was setting it off now.

Upon finding nothing it simply stood there, winded from the exertion of having to pull itself back onto its clumsy feet. 

Not an easy task when one's head weighted so much.

Now that the few senses the Projectionist still had were not under any stress, the rage began to dissipate. The soothing silence pulled at its frayed sanity, both comforting and familiar in a world that had become so alien to its past self.

Boredom was sinking in quickly, beckoning it to move on back into its usual flow.

It lifted one leg, ready to begin the endless trek of the maze all over again, only to freeze when the lift door closed with it still inside.

The seconds trickled as it slowly processed the newest development to this earth-shattering event.

It was stuck. Trapped.  **Caged** .

Another unholy screech left its ruined speaker as it began to thrash violently, trying to get out of this tight little coffin that tormented it so cruelly.

Calling out for freedom it thought it had.

A loud hum made the cage vibrate, and its shrieks only increased in intensity as it tried to protect its sensitive body from the droning it couldn't even hear.

Then the mobile prison began to ascend.

The Projectionist was no stranger to the levels above and below of its own. Sometimes it wandered up and down the stairs to check up on the myriad of hearts it had stored in multiple other places it had rested in, after chasing particularly persistent prey that didn't get the hint. Often it tracked ink that facilitated its navigation across these alien floors, as the vibrations of this substance helped it track down it's assailants (the footprints they left behind also helped). 

It had frequent encounters with the doggish wolves it had seen strapped to tables. Most gutted before it could claim their precious insides itself, although some he found fresh and ready to put a meaty fist through. 

There were also times where it had encounters with the thief that wore the grinning devil mask, often finding it near peculiar objects the fiend seemed to covet.

Tall necky things with sharp strings that hurt its fingers, round flat things that made a strange hum when it hit them with a closed fist, and big square things that had loose teeth that also made alluring vibrations.

The thief liked these strange objects, so the Projectionist made sure to track it through locating them whenever it could remember…  **If** it could remember. 

Thinking was much too hard when it had so much time just to roam and live inside its own empty head. 

How strange was that?

As the tiny cage continued its ascension the burly beast fell to its knees and hugged them tightly to its chest.

It whined uneasily as it watched familiarity fade with each level that it passed, trying to ignore the hum that occasionally assaulted its sensitive cables and chords.

It whimpered louder when it felt like it should know what these distinct pauses against its inky flesh should mean.

Then, finally, the lift came to a pause and the doors opened up wide, showcasing its captive passenger for the world to see. Not that the Projectionist gave the world much time anyway… 

As soon as it sensed an opportunity to be free, it lunged itself forward. The uneven weight of its patchwork form, causing it to trip up and tumble down onto the wooden floors.

It rolled a few feet, hurting its knees and cutting up it's right arm against a few steps of what appeared to be… A very wide space.

It had no clue what this place was, and the beady eyes staring down at it made the Projectionist right itself immediately and shriek in monstrous defiance of whatever harm the creature possessing them may wish it… only to stop and stare as nothing moved.

The strange thing that was staring at him was just a doll. A very large doll in the shape of the not-gutted-wolves it had previously encountered.

It cocked its head to the side ever so slightly, so as to not tip over, and grunted in acknowledgement that this was no threat to its existence.

Sure enough, gazing around, all the eyes that it could see were more of the drawings like the ones that its projectors played. A few of the flat devils that were strewn around, and a big devil doll to keep the wolf some company.

Letting out another grunt and a huff as it shook its head, the Projectionist turned to glance at the churning fountain of ink separating the two dolls, and promptly growled at it. Warning any of the vermin that enjoyed such things to keep well aways from it, if they did not wish a painful death to befall them. 

The gross ink slugs were squishy, and hard to get out from beneath its nails. They stuck to its feet and made it feel icky and gross.

When nothing reared its ugly head out from within the fountain, the Projectionist marched on through this new strange place… Momentarily wondering if it would find more hearts for its collection.

The stimulation was doing wonders it seemed, if it could ponder such things.

Environmental awareness wasn't really a thing that it often considered while aimlessly wandering the halls. Its feet just took it wherever they pleased, gaze focused on nothing in particular, the patchwork bruiser just ticking by like a broken clock.

This newly discovered location was different, and brought with it new rules. The Projectionist was suddenly hyper aware and hyper focused on everything surrounding it. 

The spacious expanse of this floor was interesting all around, truly a place where it could wander and get lost and just experience new things it couldn't in its maze.

Speaking of clocks, it whirred curiously as it noted all of the paraphernalia that was just  **everywhere** . From limb swinging devil-clocks, to devil and wolf dolls of various sizes. At some point it found a bowl containing a squishy blob that jumped and changed shapes when it poked it out of curiosity.

The sudden movement had made the large brute shriek and crush the bowl with a powerful strike from its hand, but the blob had prevailed despite being surrounded by shards of ceramic that had cut into the large ink beast's hand.

Once established that it wasn't attacking him (and that the stinging pain was its own doing) the Projectionist let the bouncy mass be, and continued to just wander and take in all the three dimensional creatures that it was accustomed to see flat on the walls.

The room full of clocks and dolls was especially alluring.

There was a very big wolf plush like the one before in the spacy room with the fountain. The Projectionist fixated on it and approached, reaching out to pat the inanimate pooch's ears, and then reach up to pat its own round prongs in curious comparison. The toy was not taller than it, but certainly felt squishy where it was more solid.

It reached out to touch again, fingers sinking into pillowy fabric while it's palm ran over the new texture.

A strange little word crept up into its splintered mind:  **Comfy** .

So soft it was to the touch… Would it feel good to lay on top of it?

Surely doing something of the sort would be against every survival instinct it still had keeping it going, right?

Walking was important!

Walking was surviving!

But resting… How its aching body craved to finally rest!

And look at just how inviting the plush's soft body was… it couldn't hurt to stop for a few minutes, right?

Against all odds, the Projectionist braced itself to a position where it would be less likely to hit its clunky head, then lunged forward. Practically purring as it felt itself sink into the comforting embrace of the false wolf.

Slumber, it would finally meet with it at last!

Without second thought, the Projectionist's light shut off as consciousness slipped away into the welcoming darkness.

* * *

Norman startled awake in bed, fumbling blindly as he tried to make sense of where he was at the moment, while kicking up his legs which were trapped under a mass of weighted blankets.

It was so dark! Why couldn't he see? He could always see in the dark halls, the light of the projector lens illuminating even the shadiest corners of the studio… He…

No. No he couldn't see in the dark? 

And this place… He knew this place!

This was his and his wife's room back at their apartment.

A rush of confused thoughts flooded his frazzled brain, as Norman glanced around. His hand subconsciously reaching out to click on the bedside lamp, and it soothed him slightly when the darkness melted away under the soft yellow light that cast over the familiar scene. 

He was home. But… how?

His bad eye darted about, refusing to focus as usual, while his good eye carefully surveilled his surroundings.

It landed on his bedside table, above the silly novel he'd recently picked up from the bookstore. There was a note there, waiting to be read by his curious eyes.

With a shaky hand, one much smaller than the brutish claw of the Projectionist, he took hold of the unassuming piece of paper.

_ "Went to the store to get a few things before dinner. Told the kids to behave so you could rest. Please don't overwork yourself ever again, you had a 102° fever dear. Love Maggie <3" _

He read the words once, twice and then trice, heart hammering away in his chest as it all slowly sunk in.

Had it… Had it all been a terrible nightmare? Had he, in his feverish state, dreamt up all the horrors that he thought had really occurred at Joey Drew Studios?

Had he really conjured up all of the madness and pain in those hostile halls? Pictured his own gruesome transition into a mindless abomination that couldn't even remember it was a person? A monster that was too afraid to let others attack it first?

A dry and slightly choked up laugh forced its way out of his constricted chest as relief washed over him.

He was home… 

He was home and he could think, and it didn't hurt to move his neck or limbs, and he was  **himself** .

What a terrible nightmare his fever had gifted him, one that felt so real that he expected to find a monster when he slowly kicked the blankets off and rose up from the bed. 

His bedroom mirror told a different story to what he'd thought he'd find reflected back. There he was, strong features, big round nose and lips, tired eyes (one moving about, never to meet the other's focus point since birth) and dark curly hair that was starting to gray.

He felt the stubble on his face and hummed softly to himself. He needed a shave, lest he end up looking like the photos of his Poppop Polk…

But first he desperately needed a glass of water. He usually had one resting beside his book, but Maggie had likely taken it back to the kitchen once he'd drained it throughout the night.

Not an issue. A leisurely walk around their home was a welcomed thing after he'd been so sure he'd be stuck staring at inky sepia toned (and slightly rotted), wooden panels for the rest of his miserable and dreadfully quiet life.

So that's what he did.

He put on some slippers and shrugged on his robe, and strolled out of the room at a very calm and deliberately slow pace.

It was honestly a little ridiculous how long it took him to reach the kitchen. He'd really had a grand old time of just listening to the background noises of the city, and admiring the house decor.

That really ugly vase his mama sent them as a wedding gift, where they kept a half dried up fern (he was terrible with plants and so was Maggie). The equally ugly rug his pops had found in a flea market and sent to them in the mail (ugly enough that his wife had begged him to burn it, so how could he not set it down so he could watch her purposefully scratch it up with her high heels, due to her pure and unadulterated hatred of the garish horror of checkers and polkadots?), the collection of child's drawings he and Maggie had taken to taping to the wall in proud display, as well as Aaron's many pictures (the kid really took the whole photography thing seriously since he'd bought him his own camera for his birthday).

Pictures… Oh how he'd admired the family photos so lovingly… Every portrait, every baby photo, every holiday he'd managed to document with his old battered camera that he hoped to fix one day.

That terrible nightmare had shook him up so bad that Norman genuinely thought he was never going to see those smiling faces ever again.

He passed by his children's rooms but thought better than to disturb them. They had classes tomorrow, and the clock told him that at this hour they'd be doing their homework, like he and their mother had stipulated early on.

They could do whatever with their time, but 18pm was schoolwork time.

Instead Norman carried on into the kitchen and breathed in the smells. A hint of freshly baked bread coming from the breadbasket they kept near the oven, as well as veggie soup that was cooling in the pot that was currently resting on the stove.

Fuck, he'd missed vegetable soup, and he hated eating his greens! How could a series of vivid images feel like such a lifetime when they were merely hours?

The mind sure was a mysterious thing, one much harder to understand than the projectors he maintained at the studio.

Shrugging to himself while taking a glass from one of the cupboards, the tired projectionist moved over to the sink and opened the tap without a second thought… It took a second for him to realize it wasn't water coming out.

The glass shattered upon being dropped by a retreating Norman, who stumbled back and away from the distressing sight as if he'd been burnt.

From the tap was coming out thick oily ink that smelled just as toxic as the deathly scent of the warped studio in his dreams.

No, this… this couldn't be.

It had been a dream! Hadn't it?

He was home! He was safe!

Except the ink pouring out of the sink contradicted this. So thick it was, like sticky tar, clotting in the drain and filling up the sink. It took far little time to begin overflowing and overtaking all it touched.

The color draining from everything the black substance came into contact with. Stretching out over the floor, crawling towards him, with liquid reaching fingers. Wanting to claim him.

Fearfully, Norman fled from the kitchen and down the hall. Not wanting to be pulled back by that demonic stuff.

The chemical smell was driving him nuts, burning his eyes and nose so terribly they were beginning to run.

He fled until his legs ached. But his tired stinging eyes found something quite concerning.

Norman hadn't moved an inch since getting to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

It was as if he'd been slipping in oil the entire time. No traction to propel him forward, just a useless struggle against an unseen force.

And then a new smell hit him.

One that made his heart turn to ice in his chest. A coppery smell that hit the back of his throat, and made his mouth taste like loose pennies. 

His hands felt warm and sticky and hurt to move.

Sheer terror of the familiarity of this whole scene made him feel absolutely nauseous. He knew he shouldn't look, knew what expected him once he did so, but he couldn't help himself. 

Curiosity (morbid as it may be) was his mistress after all.

Norman looked to his left, where the doors to his four children's rooms greeted him, wide open. Inviting.

**God...There was so much blood...**

The mortified projectionist fell to his knees as he stared down in pure horror at what remained of his and his wife's beautiful children. His babies… all dead, torn apart by some heartless butcher.

The terrified look immortalized in their young and lifeless features making him sob openly. He shakily reached out to hold them close to himself, screaming in fright when his eldest son's hand shot out to grasp his blood covered hands.

Empty eyes that were once warm with love and childlike wonder, bore holes into Norman's own mismatched gaze.

"Why did you kill us daddy? Why did you take our hearts?"

The projectionist shook his head, tears and snot running down his face as he tried to deny it. Deny the atrocity the ghost of his son accused him of committing against his own kin. But no matter how much he tried, Norman couldn't speak over the lump in his throat. 

Everything hurt, and everything was warm and sticky, his little ones' hearts still beat in his monstrous hands that had slain them without thought.

And then the click of the house key made his blood run cold all over again.

"Honey? Are you up?"

No… no no no no! Maggie! It wasn't safe! He wasn't safe! She'd die! He'd kill her too!

He tried calling out, to beg for her to run, but all that came out was the primal and blood-curdling screech of the Projectionist, as it turned and trampled over the corpses of its previous victims, rushing to claim another heart for it's collection.

Norman's very soul screamed upon seeing his wife's confused and then terrified face under the beast's burning gaze.

* * *

The Projectionist  **screamed** . It screamed in terror and anguish as it kicked away from the comfy wolf it had decided to rest upon on a whim.

It screamed as it tried to force itself away from a person that was not physically there, thus safe from its violence.

It screamed, as Norman Polk was still very presently in charge of his mental faculties, after having had his "brain" so stimulated and overworked for the first time in years.

He screamed until the speaker lodged in his torso gave out, spluttering weakly as it temporarily short-circuited. The internal mess of organic and non-organic materials needing time to mend themselves once more into a semi-functional state.

Once finding himself incapable of producing sound, the Projectionist sat there, shaking and completely disoriented. Trying to make sense of reality and dreams that were cruelly senseless.

And then the weight of it all crashed down… He could remember.

He was a person, not a something, a someone.

A father… He was a father who could forget these things all over again, and hurt his loved ones. A father who couldn't protect his beloved and his children as long as he was this… Heinous monstrosity.

A monster who'd sooner dismember anything it came across than think twice about their identity. A menace to society.

With that knowledge Norman did the only thing he could think to do while he still had awareness.

He lashed out, letting the anguish and hatred of his situation demolish all that met with his brutish body.

Shelves broke, dolls were torn to shreds, the wolf plush was gutted, and the Bendy clocks shattered. All the while he screamed silently as he let the floodgates wide open to pour out all the torment.

Then, when there was nothing left to destroy, he cried.

Sobbing without a mouth or eyes to clear, hiding a lens into hands that could do cruel and devastating things.

Trembling inconsolably on his knees, in the darkness of a cold and dreary studio full of monsters just as odious as he.

Mourning what he'd become, until the memories faded back into obscurity. Letting himself fade back into nothing but an afterthought.

Above and well beyond out of sight, Susie Campbell wept as Alice whispered comfortingly to her in their shared mind.

The poor dear had only wanted her old friend to have a chance to be comfortable and rest. That, it seemed, had been a horrible mistake on her part.

There just wasn't anything in this cold and brutal world of theirs that could alleviate such misery as the one that burdened the Projectionist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey oh! Sorry that I haven't really been writing as of late guys, some family stuff recently happened (and is still ongoing) so I was a little frazzled for a while.
> 
> The Ink Demonth also took over my life for the entire month of August, so I couldn't focus much besides on drawing for the daily prompts. Kick-starting my writing habits with this somber horror of a drabble. It kinda helped vent some of my frustrations.  
> Sad that poor old Norman had to be my punching bag, usually I reserve that right for Sammy.


	27. Vampiric Benefactor (Vampire AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an ancient vampire secretly takes a fledgeling under his wing.

Norman had been the one to save Sammy's life on the night of his attack. The old projectionist had left just 30 minutes after the blond music director had clocked out, ready to go to his scheduled feeding, when he'd stumbled across the horrific sight in the middle of the street. 

Granted he should have seen it coming, since he knew there were a few "purists" who'd come around looking to hunt human prey, rather than the plentiful cattle that the Society provided them with. He just never expected them to be so bold as to attack anyone in his territory. 

As a member of a very prominent vampire family himself, Norman's name alone often drove those cheeky enough to spew such nonsense, to turn tail and fly away never to dare impose in his turf ever again.

But not the pug-nosed bastard who targeted Sammy. Idiot had thought he could kill under the radar while out in the open like some shameless thug. Norman had shown him what for, ripping his ears to shreds and nearly taking his wing clean off, and saved his grumpy coworker's life (albeit also ruining it slightly). Getting turned was a nightmare for most humans, and he knew Sammy to be quite neurotic as it was, so he'd done his best to arrange some meetings with a few friends that worked for the Society.

Surprisingly enough, Sammy had actually bounced back easily. It almost seemed like becoming a vampire had all but come naturally to him. 

Good, because that meant it was easier to keep an eye on him without both endangering themselves. Norman didn't need to reveal himself, just report to the agent giving the blond his crash-course into vampirehood (it was quite fun to witness when he realized he could still digest certain foods without trouble, the man looked over the moon when he'd come back with a banana milkshake on one particularly slow lunch break).

In hindsight though, he should have figured out Joey would notice some alterations in Sammy's eating schedule, as well as the mandatory "medical leave". The man had an exceptional eye when it came to spotting fledgelings, and Norman knew he'd like to acquire a new trophy for his vast collection. Another thing to keep his eye on, more than he already did...

Among the many things Norman tasked himself to ensure Sammy's transition was as fluid as possible, protecting him from Drew was not even the worst task. The worst the poor kid had to deal with was his creepiness.

No, the initial mood swings had definitely been the worst, with Norman having to defuse his volatile temper before he actually snapped and killed someone. When that phase passed he'd been completely relieved.

Not even his kids had been this much of a handful when they'd hit puberty!

Other that the Drew creep factor and the maturing of his condition, the music director's scent (because that had changed to incorporate specific pheromones) indicated that he was pretty healthy for such a young'n going through so much change all at once. Norman was so pleased with this that he couldn't wait to see what form he'd take, knowing that environmental and hormonal levels played a big part in that. He noticed his cravings for fruit had increased drastically, so definitely a fruit bat of some kind.

Finally, when the night came that Norman had to save Sammy's hide from a more elaborate plan of Joey's, he had no choice but to reveal his own status as a vampire. 

He didn't disclose much, just cheekily changed and flew off, satisfied with the knowledge that Sammy knew he owed him big time, in more ways than the man was even aware of. But that'd be a matter to sort with him later.

Hopefully, over a shared meal. 

He really did want to see what kinda bat he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a very small drabble this time around, mostly because there's not a lot to do with it (considering it's a side bit to another drabble).


	28. The Weird Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Joey liked to shake things up a bit to keep Henry on his toes, but this particular loop was probably the weirdest of them all...

Joey Drew was a creature of positively maddening habit. He'd demonstrated this since he was but a little child, eager to run from the church service and get grass stains on his Sunday best, ready to go on imaginary adventures with his one best friend in the whole wide world. Indeed, a day could not go by where Joey and Henry didn't play pretend in the latter's backyard. 

Now as an old and bitter man in a wheelchair, the same still proved to be unfortunately true, although the setting was much different. He'd drag himself out of bed every day, completed his routine, then off he went to put his "toys" and supposed best friend through the same nightmare over and over again.

Surely doing the same old charade had to grow stale even for him, right? Well... That's why once in a blue moon, Joey tried to get a little... Creative.

Henry found that he hated those times more than being a prisoner to a never-ending loop, because the unpredictable nature of Joey's creativity was truly something out of his nightmares. Such was his dilemma now.

The first sign that all was not as it should be was the fact the pedestals that allowed the Ink Machine to be turned on, were already prepared and ready to go. Items placed in their rightful positions awaiting the flick of a switch. The second sign was the apprehensive behaviour of the demon, upon Henry triggering its first appearence in this loop. It didn't jump out at him, instead merely pulled itself out of the ink with something akin to frustration.

"You too uh?" Henry felt for the wretched creature, knowing that it was as unwilling a participant in this show as he was. He also knew that it disliked when Joey shook up the plot a bit because it often ended with it finding a more painful demise.

The Ink Demon said nothing in return, but motioned for him to go with it's uneven limbs. Different or not, the path was a linear one and Henry had to go about everything as if it were a normal run... Except it was anything but. The Music Department was proof enough of that.

He fell through the floor, had the usual visions, acquired a fire axe, and was ready to find the music director creeping about as usual. Instead, the old veteran came face to face with a religious service in full swing.

Searchers and Lost Ones, gurgling and reciting along to whatever "words of god" Sammy Lawrence was currently preaching, were sitting in makeshift booths.

Several alters set up for the Ink Demon were brimming with offerings of dolls, trinkets and cans of bacon soup. So many, many, cans of bacon soup. Brought in by the members in attendance.

Henry paused, completely taken by surprise by this... Arrangement. If anyone noticed his presence, no one seemed bothered about it. If anything, Sammy glanced once at him and merely continued his sermons, giving Henry ample time to accomplish his tasks in the music department. 

As he collected the abandoned pressure valve (because Jack had apparently also gone to the "Sunday service"), Henry wondered if the mad maestro would just let him leave peacefully.

When no blow came from behind, he felt pretty satisfied with the outcome. Until he had to pass by the large gathering of ink people again, that is...

The sermons had apparently come to a close, and it was about the time church goers were to perform their theophagy ritual. Henry expected them to just eat the soup as their "body and blood of god", but of course why would any sane man think that these people who followed the ramblings of a mad Prophet, would do so much as dare a glance at an offering to their Lord?

No, Henry should have honestly known better, and he came to a complete stop as he watched the once-respectable composer push a cage full of live rats, and a bowl full of ink, into the center of the room.

"Feast now brothers and sisters, for one day this flesh will allow us to regain our own physical bodies. But let us not forget our Lord's blessings. May drinking his blood infuse us with the courage we need to commit to such ritualistic prayer."

Henry didn't stick around to watch the "feasting", but the shrill screeching of rats and wet crunching of bones followed him all the way to Buddy's safehouse, where the poor cartoon wolf looked just as disgusted and horrified as him. Fur standing on end just as Henry's own skin got goosebumps.

Thoroughly disturbed by what he'd witnessed, the old cartoonist knew to be on guard for whatever came next. While the Ink Demon seemed to just linger and let them pass, Alice Angel was still a supposed threat he needed to contend with. Joey didn't do much with her, as far as petty resentment towards Susie went, so he expected a struggle. He didn't expect a cabaret show.

There, in a room fixed up to look like a stage with Butcher Gang clones working as some sort of bar staff, stood the malicious lady herself, performing with a mask fashioned from an Alice Angel cutout's head.

The left side serving to hide her deformities, while she seductively swung her hips to the beat of a song that was certainly less cartoony and more sensual. A tango of some sort, or perhaps even jazz. Henry had a bit of a tin ear, so he couldn't really tell...

She was pretty content just singing and dancing, although her words were ones that put both he and Buddy on edge.

Sweet words that romanticized death and dismemberment, because nothing spelled angelic mercy like hearing about your innards getting torn out and used in ways he dare not speak of.

At least the whiskey was nice, likely pillaged from a couple of employees's offices.

Wherever Henry went, he found no real danger. This loop was just weird. Of course before moving onto Bendyhell to see what in God's name Joey might have done to subdue Bertrum, Alice did ask him to check up on Norman.

He'd at least hoped the Projectionist was behaving as intended... Except he wasn't. Of course he wasn't. Henry nearly backed off into the lift as soon as he realized the hulking beast was playing with the remains of its dead prey, and then nearly straight up pissed himself when that blazing light fell upon him and his lupine companion.

But then the large beast did something unexpected. It lumbered slowly towards them rather than rushing them, and then gently head-butted Henry's arm, purring like a big twisted cat of some kind.

Buddy shrugged at him when he looked over with a raised brow, before the old cartoonist sighed and gave the object-headed beast a few scratches on the "chin" and left it to its... Morbid activities. Playing with its mangled food like an actual cat...

Bendyhell in contrast, was quite pleasant. Abuzz with the cheers of Lost Ones having fun with the games and rides. Bertrum looked annoyed, but entertained his guests nonetheless. Henry Eve caught sight and waved at the dancing animatronic that ran about checking in on the Lost Ones that were having a blast. Hopefully none belonged to Sammy's church, lest poor Bertrum ended up dealing with upchucked rat remains... Best not think of that.

The encounter with Allison and Tom was postponed to the giant Ink Machine itself. They were in the Ink Demon's throne room, playing card games with it. The absolute look of boredom twisting its grin into a grimace.

"You know what, I don't even care enough to ask..." He threw up his hands in surrender and simply say down with them. "What are we playing?"

"Go fish. At the best of three, then you can end this nightmare..." Allison sighed.

"Amen to that..." He took the hand the Ink Demon shuffled for him, then joined in their game, allowing Buddy to sit down besides him to doodle away in his notebook.

If Joey was going to weird him out with his freaky jokes, at least Henry would get back at him by leaving him waiting in his stuffy old apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This request called for the studio monsters to be docile, with Sammy performing theophagy, Twisted Alice not seeking perfection and instead wearing a mask and singing creepy songs, and the Projectionist behaving like a cat so err... Well it was a weird one.
> 
> I had to get creative with what Sammy might use to complete ritualistic consumption of the body of god, since he mostly just uses soup as an offering to Bendy. The studio sure seems like it'd have a rat problem so err... Yeah. Rat eating...


	29. Tactile Symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't often that encounters between the Projectionist and the Prophet ended like this: With peaceful blissfulness, and mutual enjoyment of something as simple as a piano tune.

There was little movement in the halls which, to the Projectionist's credit, was more than enough reason for it to be wary.

Stillness often meant something dangerous was lurking about, scaring away the sluggish vermin that lived in their gross little puddles, and ensuring that the other misfits proceeded outside of often frequented pathways.

Unlike the creatures that could slink by unseen however, the Projectionist had no such luck with stealth.

It was a big beast, heavy and noisy despite being unable to hear itself, with clumsy hands and feet that bumped into things. Its wires and chords tangling and dragging along, snagging on sharp edges and whatever uneven surfaces it came across.

Its suffering was loud too. Each pained screech louder and angrier than the last.

So really, knowing all this, it shouldn't surprise anyone that stillness set the Projectionist on edge.

Somehow it had wandered off further from Level 14 than it usually did. It wasn't smart to go where its senses would be limited, as the Projectionist used the pooling ink of its domain to locate intruders. But something had called for it to keep walking up the stairs.

A vague sense of purpose that threatened to trickle away between loose fingers, like sand at the beach.

For once its palms were not clenched into fists and nothing was there to illicit aggression. Bizarre.

Whatever remained of its judgement thought that perhaps it should turn back, go into what was familiar to it, but curiosity urged it forward into a place that was buried deep in memories that were as incomprehensibly thick as molasses.

Had it liked molasses? On mashed potatoes perhaps? No, it had surely been more of a pickle fan…

Was hunger what pushed it forward? Yes, it vaguely recalled one of those edible cylinder dispenser thingies being somewhere in this general area.

Soup inside a big box with loose bits that felt familiar against its fingers.

What were those called? Something with a bee... What did insects have to do with pressable things that gave food?

The Projectionist shook its heavy noggin, groaning deeply as it felt its neck crack noisily.

It felt no less confused than before shaking itself out of this derailed train of thought.

Thinking was much too hard.

What was it doing again? Oh yes, walking.

That it could do.

One stip step at a time, towards a door with a fancy plaque that it couldn't remember how to read.

The first letter was the one that spelled mayonnaise.

Surprisingly doorknobs remained an easy enough task for such a creature to deal with. As unyielding as its mind was, some things seemed to still be second nature. Such as opening doors, repairing projectors, sucking up soup with a tube connected directly with its esophagus (creepy and gross), and rampaging whenever it's territory was invaded by verminous critters.

Stopping to inspect its surroundings the Projectionist startled, hackles immediately raised as it noticed the arrangement of thief-objects. The things that vibrated and reverberated when it tried to figure them out, and the warm melty stuffs that crumbled between its fingers when it grasped them too hard.

The word that came to mind was something like candy but not quite.

Their light wasn't as strong as its own, but it sure felt more pleasant. Comforting.

But there was no comfort to be found here… This was thief territory!

The one with the grinning devil mask would surely come to a place full of these plentiful thief-objects.

Perhaps now it could have the chance to retrieve what the devilish slug had stolen from it. First it would need to find it though, and the thief was slippery like a weasel. Hiding in walls like a rat. 

The Projectionist's previous agitated state made it much too impatient to track prey for long, but it could make an exception for this particular pest.

Moving as deliberately slowly as it could so as to minimize noise (an instinct that carried over from its much sneakier human life) the lumbering quasi-mechanical beast began its search.

It didn't take long for it to become distracted however…

Although there was not enough ink to boost it's sensitivity to vibrations, the Projectionist's long wires were quite sensitive on their own.

One particular wire, frayed at the tip from one too many times getting snagged, caught onto something. Something strangely pleasant.

Murmurs, slow and careful, and much less aggressive than the usual hums and groans of the pipework and machinery that often left its senses overwhelmed. Mind frenzied with anguish and fear.

No, these were careful sounds. 

Elegant. Gentle. Purposeful. Familiar…

It rounded the corner where its cable had felt them coming from and found itself faced with the back of the thief, whatever he was doing to make the nice resonance seemed to hold his attention. 

An unwise mistake, but one the Projectionist could not seem to bring itself to take advantage of.

That thing… the big square thing with loose teeth… It was the source of the calmness.

The luminous sight of the beast had fallen upon these particular thief-objects many times before. Not once had it thought much of them. But now? 

Now they felt strangely familiar to it. 

In some sentimental way that made its hollow chest ache.

Their true name, what was it? Something that popped against the lips?

Pop… Poppop...?

* * *

_"Nanna, how come we's gots a piano if I ain't ever seen nor heard none play it?" Norman had asked his great grandmother as he watched her carefully dust the ivory keys of the intricately carved instrument._

_The piano, a deep dark wooden behemoth with carvings of flowers he couldn't name, sat in a quiet corner of the Polk household._

_It was a great big thing left to its own devices, that no one was allowed to play._

_No one but Nanna was allowed to touch it, and even then she only ever did so to clean it._

_Once the question registered with her, Nanna paused to look down at him with those tired dark eyes of hers, each wrinkle a witness to her infinite wisdom. She spoke only after sitting on his question, likely contemplating, for a minute or two that felt like an eternity to a 6 year old._

_"This old thing…? None plays it, cuzz it don't belong to none other than yous's late Poppop." She replied sweetly, although there was a sadness in her eyes that betrayed her true feelings on the matter. "Why, he built it himself he did, when we was done buildin' the farmhouse…"_

_"Poppop built the whole piano himself?! But it's so big Nanna!" And to him it truly had been a gargantuan thing. He'd been such a small child that could barely reach the far end of the kitchen counter._

_At the needless raising of his voice, he got a flick to the ear for his troubles. No yelling in the household unless it was an emergency._

_"Hush now child, lest yous wake up the dead with all that yappin'!" His great grandmother chastised as he rubbed his sore ear. "And yous's Poppop was a very big man. Big, but as quiet as death itself... The only time he made a sound was when he played, and oh how beautiful a melody it was…"_

_"I wish I coulda listened, Nanna…" he wondered what it must have sounded like if it could make his big strong Nanna so misty eyed. Talking about Poppop always made her so sad. Like missing home._

_"That ain't possible no more deary… No one can play this here beaut. No one but my darlin' Ernest…"_

_He'd gawked at that._

_No one ever, ever, ever, called Poppop by name. Franny said it brought bad luck, because for all they respected him, Poppop was a crazy man who'd had to be put down like a rabid dog after he tried to smother pepaw in the crib… a product of the excessive cruelty of the world full of cruel people, Nanna always said. Hearing her say it so casually in conversation was haunting, if not a little exciting. Like Norman knew they'd get in trouble if they were caught saying it._

_"But why…?" Curious child that he was, no less discouraged by such a forbidden name being uttered in the household, Norman couldn't help inquire what made the piano so off-limits._

_"Yous really don't get satisfied easy do you? Keep at it like that and one day yous will find yourself with a head so full of thoughts, yous won't be able to think child…" Nanna chuckled. Her toothless smile was strangely charming. "Yous's Poppop was mighty protective o'his piano deary. It'd be open invitation to his tormented spirit if someone so much as disrespected them ivories with unpracticed tunes… But leavin' it to rot would be a declaration o'war. I may o' lost him to madness, but I'd never want my darlin' to hurt from such betrayal… Keepin' it in good condition is the one way I can show him I still love him. Despite what he became."_

* * *

Piano. His childhood home had a piano that no one was allowed to play, lest they incurred the wrath of a spirit that could never find peace. The Projectionist, Norman Polk momentarily at the helm, stood stock still and gazing unblinkingly at the thief… No, at the afflicted form of Sammy Lawrence, as the latter played a merry melody he'd composed long ago, when both their minds weren't full of ink and rot.

He couldn't hear the music, but he could feel it. The timing, the beat, the methodical and graceful movements of Sammy's inky limbs. Even missing a digit on each hand, he was managing to hit the correct notes at the correct times. Practiced elegance and determination alone, made him a brilliant musician that Joey Drew had corrupted into a devil worshipper of some sort. A pitiful waste.

At least the ink hadn't stolen that musical brilliance from him, nor the memory of his own works. Right now he was playing "The Lighter Side of Hell".

A deep rumble escaped the Projectionist's ruined speaker, finally clueing in his presence to the oblivious Prophet.

The way Sammy jumped would have been humorous, if not for the fact he was rightfully terrified for his life. On any other occasion a visit from the Projectionist would have meant certain death. Not this time, however. Instead Norman reached out, ignoring how Sammy flinched and curled in on himself bracing for a blow that never came, and let out another rumbling sigh as he pressed down on the piano keys with his own clumsy fingers.

His light briefly went out, almost as if he'd closed eyes he no longer possessed. 

Just feeling the oscillating of the notes against his digits.

When his light came back on he found Sammy looking up at him. The mask hid his face, but he recognized the tilt of his head. He was curious about the Projectionist's oddly docile demeanor.

Seemed to consider his action before pressing another one of the perfectly tuned ivories himself.

Norman couldn't help but rumble in approval. He carefully moved over to sit beside the large instrument, plopping down with a heavy thump that startled the masked ink man once more. 

But to Sammy's credit, he didn't run. The Prophet too was an awfully curious person at heart, and one who enjoyed an audience when he performed his solo symphonies.

The Projectionist rumbled once more, pressing himself against the piano so as to feel the music he knew would play.

Sammy didn't need to be told twice.

The peaceful albeit static-filled sigh was encouragement enough for the mad maestro to lose himself in the tune once more. His deaf listener shutting off his light once again to focus solely on what he could feel against his aching body.

He wondered briefly if Sammy's skillful hands would have been good enough to play his Poppop's piano. Surely even a madman's ghost could appreciate wasted talent like this?

Oh well… it's not like Norman's conscience would remain for long to ponder on the pickiness of a dead relative. Once Sammy felt the need to leave, he'd be back to wandering aimlessly back into his own inky domain as a grotesque and mindless beast. For now however, he let himself enjoy the comfort of the gentle and lighthearted song.

In the darkness of the studio, two lost souls enjoyed a cherished moment of blissfulness together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt request by CroftersGamer who wanted a little bit of a musical truce between the Projectionist and Sammy.
> 
> It was good to write something so wholesome, as well as exploring the Projectionist's confused thought patterns. The oversimplified ramblings of something not quite man, not quite animal, and not quite machine.


	30. Giant Projector Man adopts a Tiny Camera Son, more at five!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was a Polk, and the Polks did not hurt their young, or whatever they perceived as such.

Norman's and Margarite's marriage had come as a surprise to the entire Polk family. A simple signature on a piece of paper, and a pair of battered rings that had belonged to Nanna and Poppop Polk (gifted to him by the former who always knew he'd be a better fit for them). No fanciful ceremony with pretty dresses or suits, expensive cakes and extensive guest list.

A disappointing waste, his mama had proclaimed over the letter she'd sent as a reply to his own that detailed his status as a married man in a far off city. She'd wanted to witness the event, shed her motherly tears as one of her little ducklings became a real man ready to start a family.

But, to Norman and Maggie, the marriage wasn't a motive of celebration like his mama thought. It was insurance against further discrimination towards them. They were, after all, the black couple that lived in a quaint apartment in New York city. 

Already that was a challenge of its own, as said apartment was populated primarily by white hot-blooded tenants, with only one more laying vacant for a (hopefully) friendlier family.

Their downstairs neighbor clearly hated them from sight alone, and the others were unsure how the new additions fit into their "perfect" lives in the Big Apple. If any of them were to discover that they both enjoyed the full spectrum of the gender binary, well... Accidents happened in the big city. Accidents that targeted specific minorities for some "unfathomable" reason.

So yes, as shameful as it may be, their wedding was strictly business. Rings for show, public displays of affection to dispell the gossip, and overall just the usual married life arguments in the grocery store to sell the deal (neither of them could care less about which type of sugar made the best apple pie crust, or what brand of soap was better, but it sure made the couples they passed by smile knowingly at the common domestic disputes). There was just one thing left to do to really make a statement on their relationship status.

"Three of my coworkers are getting maternity leave. It's been a few months, I think it's time."

Children were a sensitive topic. Both Norman and Maggie wanted kids, had a vague idea of how many they planned to raise, and were quite certain they'd make beautiful and healthy younglings with one another. The question was: Was it fair to bring in chidren into a farce of a matrimony? What if one day they found their actual ideal partner?

"Yous better be sure it's the right time darlin'..." He'd urged her to think more on the subject. "Don't want to rush things like that now, do we?"

"I'm ready." She'd stared him in the eye with a certainty and confidence he couldn't begin to imagine. He knew she was, but was he? Was he truly ready to bare such a responsibility?

That night he relented to her wishes and they had finally consummated their marriage. Nine months later, little Nancy was born a small but relatively healthy baby. Upon seeing his firstborn for the first time ever, and then holding her gently in hands that dwarfed her little head greatly, Norman immediately understood he was ready to be a parent. And a loving one at that.

* * *

In total, Norman and Maggie had five children. Three boys and two girls. Nancy was their eldest child and the more levelheaded of the bunch. The apple of her mother's eye, and her father's baby girl, she was the perfect balance of their greatest qualities and teachings. A clever and determined young girl with big aspirations for her future. She wanted to be a doctor.

Aaron was the second eldest child and the one most like his father. Clever and with an eye for detail, enough so that he had taken up an interest that fits his perceptive nature: Photography. The walls of the Polk household were filled with his works, at first done with Norman's own old and battered camera, until he'd bought the young lad his very own fancy new model.

Louise was the middle child, and the troublemaker of the bunch. She was a bit of a tomboy, and liked to scrap with the boys in her class, to the point where it wasn't uncommon to see her with several bruises and band-aids, and haphazardly taped wireframed glasses. She kept both Norman and Maggie on their toes.

Albert was the second youngest and the quietest. A little bookworm that appreciated the art of literature over anything else. He wanted to be a novelist, even at a very young age, and often shared ideas for stories at the dinner table. There was no doubt in Norman's heart that his little boy would write a best-seller one day. Maggie fretted for his social life, however, as he was the least sociable of their children. Far too shy.

Finally the youngest child was Willard. An outspoken young toddler that was definitely as confident as his mama. A little tot with a very big personality indeed, that Norman couldn't wait to see grow up into yet another fine young boy. If any of their children was to ever get what he wanted in life, it'd definitely be Will.

Truly there was nothing in this world that Norman loved more than his offsprings, and indulging in their interests was always an adventure. One to be shared with three other members of the family.

The vacant apartment had been occupied by Norman's younger brother, Alfred, and his own two children. By then almost all their neighbors (minus the one that hated them from day one) had warmed up to them. So another set of friendly faces was a good addition to their home life. 

Norman absolutely loved watching over his nephew and niece, especially because his children were delighted to have other kids around their age to play with.

It reminded him of being back home in Louisiana, his own brothers and sisters sparring with him and playing whatever games they could come up with on the spot. Watching Louise and Nelson tumbling about fighting as equally dirty as the other, really stirred up some good memories he had of his older sisters.

"Bite her Nelson! Bite her!" Lydia cheered as her older brother pinned their cousin to the ground.

"Louise tug on his ears! Pummel him!" Aaron called out to his little sister, encouraging her to fend off her opponent.

"Lydia and Aaron! What I tell y'all 'bout encouragin' yous's siblings t'fight all nasty?!"

"Not to...?"

"Exactly."

Granted some play-fighting needed to be monitored when most of the audience were enablers, and neither his middle child nor his nephew had any qualms sending each other to the hospital. They were still learning about consequences after all.

Still, there wasn't anything else in the world that built better character than teaching the children that they were equals to one another in all their shared activities. Respect was an important lesson to be learned. One Norman wished every parent taught their child.

The world would be a better place otherwise...

* * *

Sometimes the Projectionist would inevitably be unable to fend off sleep. The exhaustion would wear it down and give way to the nightmares of a life it could barely remember. Then it would wake up and scream, trying to rid itself of heinous visions of itself ripping its offsprings apart.

Norman Polk would reawaken inside its brutish body and lash out, hoping to either physically fight away his own broken psyche or perhaps cripple the Projectionist so that it could never fulfil these dreamt up acts of violence.

A Polk was all about family, and the thought of becoming the sort to bring harm upon his own children... Well, Norman had heard the stories. Knew why Poppop was such a taboo topic. He did not want to be the man besides his Nanna in the portrait above the fireplace... One he'd resembled if his eye wasn't wrong and he'd grown out his beard...

The Projectionist didn't have the mental faculties to understand this distress however, but it seemed to recognize that what it saw in dreams was bad. That what it did to the vermin, it should never do to those innocent little youngsters that looked at it with love instead of fear and hatred. So... Why did it do it in dreams? Why did it kill when it wanted to be docile? The children were not a threat, so why...?

It made no sense... But it didn't much care for elaborate existential crisis like that. Norman's consciousness would freak it out, but ultimately loosened its grip and go back to being dormant. The lumbering beast resuming its tiring trek through the endless maze. A cycle that would repeat itself the next time it fell asleep.

It was in the aftermath of yet another nightmare that the Projectionist came across something completely new to it. Something small and living, and very much intruding on its space. Something that very vaguely looked like it...

A living being with a body similar to the ones the horrible botched critters that ran around in packs had, yet with no visible imperfections to it. Its head though... It was kind of like a projector, but not. Square in shape, with a lens, a tube, dial and something very round that kind of looked like a big ear. A camera, like the one Aaron had gotten for his birthday. 

It seemed to have gloves, shoes and a belt that sort of looked like the speaker lodged in the Projectionist's torso, but it was hard to tell since the strange being was on the ground flailing about like a dying fish.

The towering amalgam stared at the tiny new thing in dumbfounded silence, unsure how to react to such a strange discovery, until it realized why the thing was flailing about to begin with.

One of its legs was pinned under a crate that appeared to have fallen from a nearby stack, and the Projectionist could tell the limb was broken. Nearby lay a series of Ink Hearts that had been resting on the fallen crate.

On any other occasion it would have simply walked over, raised one heavy foot, and crushed the intruder's skull for daring to try to steal from it. This time however, was completely different... Something primal was urging the Projectionist to do something completely alien to its usually aggressive nature. Something instinctive.

The poor creature grew agitated upon finally noticing the Projectionist's presence as it approached, but its broken limb ensured it stayed put even after the crate was picked up and tossed aside. It shook fearfully once the Projectionist knelt down to pick it up by the torso. It stopped shaking once it was brought to rest against the much larger beast's chest, cradled gently like an infant. The Projectionist rumbling softly so as to reassure it that no harm would befall it.

The little creature, with a head that was not a projector but a distant relative of a sort, stared up with its own dark lens before reaching out to gently pat the Projectionist's "face". It seemed to understand its intention to help it, rather than exterminate it.

The lumbering beast carried on in its path, now carrying a most precious cargo. It would find something to help treat the injury and then it would begin teaching this newly adopted offspring to survive in the studio.

Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was still a Polk, and the Polks cared for their younglings. This tiny sentient camera was its child now, and the beast would protect it from the horrors of this horrid studio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was only a matter of time before I wrote about the Projectionist adopting Cameraman (One of the newest toon characters introduced by the Bendy Crack up Comics collection, who I adore greatly). This prompt gave me the perfect excuse.


	31. Toons: Sidekick Wanted Add

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the rise of crime rates in Bouillonburg, Souper Boris has no choice but to follow the advice of a pal, and do the unthinkable... Put up an add on the newspaper for sidekick tryouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who doesn't want mild Bendy Crack-up Comics spoilers just scroll on by.

There came a time when ever the wiliest of wolves had to admit he had his work cut out for him. Especially when Bouillonburg's crime rates had slowly risen up with the arrival of newer, overly-eager villains ready to make a name for themselves in the big city. Small-fry that kept his attention when the bigger threats were out there.

Now, Boris wasn't new to the whole crime doesn't pay shtick. Had experience in both worlds even, as he'd been a crook well before he was a goody two-shoes, so in theory he was the ideal hero for this particular city. But even a hero of Souper Boris's caliber couldn't be everywhere at all times. He needed someone to deal with the minor threats while he dealt with his archenemies.

A Robin to his Batman so to speak.

That's where Bendy had to stick his proverbial nose into his business.

"Geeh... No offence pal, but what does an emissary of evil know anything about fighting crime?" Boris asked over lunch with his two best friends in the whole world.

"A lot! You don't get into t'family business without expectin' some do-gooder t'muck it up for ya!" Bendy exclaimed. "I mean, I hang out with Alice don't I?! No offense doll."

"Charming." Alice rolled her eyes at that, but smiled at Boris. "But in all honesty, demons and angels often have to know the intricacies of good and evil to combat each other in the mortal world. Balance is an important aspect of our jobs."

"So in layman's terms, ya gotta know the enemy t'beat the enemy!" The little imp winked at him before leaning back into his chair. "Trust me pal, at this point I've become an expert... And my expertise calls for a newspaper add."

"I can't just advertise the hero business in a newspaper!" Boris huffed. That'd be an open invitation to all his enemies.

"Got any other ideas pal?" Bendy asked.

"Well, no...?" Boris conceded.

"There ya have it."

Two weeks later, after failing to stop the SSSB from crashing the Oscars, Souper Boris had over 50 people lining up for tryouts. He had no other options but to try Bendy's suggestion... Unwise thus far, as he was greatly disappointed in this rouster of inexperienced glory hogs seeking to become his sidekick.

"Next..." He scratched off the last name from his list. He was down to the 49th interview. "Name and skillset?"

No reply. He looked up from his list to stare at a dog with mime's attire and makeup on. A frigging mime of all things.

"... Please leave."

The mime pouted but nodded and walked off, joining the other 48 people preceding them. What a Grade A clown act.

"Next..." He pinched the bridge of his snout and glanced around for the next disappointment. He blinked upon not seeing the 50th candidate standing there.

A tap on the leg made him look down at...

"The Woolly Triplets! Golly gosh! I haven't seen ya since your graduation!" He knelt down to talk with the trio of small sheep. "What brings you to a sidekick casting for good old Souper Boris?"

The trio murmured among each other before looking back up at him.

"Super villains got us beat..."

"Not enough to go around to keep a roof over our heads..."

"Or a meal in our bellies."

"We want payback." They finished together.

"Ah... Yeah I figured the crime scene's been suffering something awful since all these super villains started popping up like daisies... Even the more experienced villains have been complaining." It wasn't easy being bad when someone else wanted to out do your badness. If only more heroes came into the picture as well... Boris honestly blamed the economy on that one. "You lot learn anything since I taught you how to crime?"

"I learned kung-fu." One of the triples proclaimed.

"I got a gun license." Another added.

"I studied torture tactics, both physical and psychological." The final boasted.

"You're hired." Boris grinned. This was going to ease his workload so very much! He could finally get even with Miss Twisted, the Brute and the Cameraman for that fiasco at the Oscars, now that his little buddies were going out to deal with the pests that put them out of work. Win-win! Everyone got revenge! That was sorta like justice, right?

Who knew Bendy could actually have good ideas once in a while?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that I only saw a few Souper Boris panels so I'm not sure how to write the Woolly Triplets, so bare with me on the absurdity
> 
> I hope to write more with the actual Toons soon enough. This was fun!


	32. A Story about Recovery and Reunions (Post-Studio AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is hard when you feel disconnected from the world around you.

In total, Henry had spent an entire 5 years stuck inside the seemingly never-ending loop that Joey had designated as the Cycle. It was absolutely surreal to the old cartoonist, reading his ex-childhood friend turned tormentor's notes and studies on the subject matter. The neat cursive detailing mad ramblings that could pass off as the musings of an overzealous researcher observing terrified mice in a booby-trapped maze. Studying their patterns, the subsequent changes of them upon additional stimuli being added to their environment, and other insane practices that completely threw morality out of the proverbial window.

Each beginning and ending of a year, another marked failure upon a calendar oversaturated by Joey Drew's overwhelming lack of satisfaction.

Even so, as much as it ached to think about lost time, 5 years wasn't much compared to what everyone else had to endure. 20 years of inky hell were nothing to shrug about, and Henry wasn't planning on just throwing everyone out into the streets to fend for themselves.

The house so close to the mountains, an inheritance he'd never really thought would come in handy, was the only reprive these shells of people had ever had in the span of two decades full of torment. His attention the only positive social interaction that they could recall with their broken minds.

Their recovery was not his responsibility, but he felt that he owed it to them regardless of the fact. Joey's descent was entirely on the man (his heinous crimes as well), but it didn't sit well with Henry to just not do anything to help fix some of the damages of the world.

And god if it didn't fill him with hope when he watched them slowly go into the road of recovery. People on the mend, shedding their old skins to become less the product of a cruel fiddler's ambitions, and more of their old selves, albeit newer in certain aspects.

The angels remained so, with little nubby horns and skin papery white. Tired eyes of sepia toned yellows, and scars from horrors he couldn't hope to understand. That he'd seen mere shadows of while briefly imprisoned himself.

Sammy fluctuated, stuck in a cycle of trying to find himself now that he felt like he was neither Samuel Lawrence Jr, nor the Prophet that worshipped the Ink Demon. Sometimes more close to human, other times coated in thick tarry skin that reflected oddly in the light. The closest he got to his old self was very close to the truth, but his once curly blond locks were now a messy tangle of raven curls that made him look so much paler than he should be. His teeth were sharp, his eyes far too yellow, and he refused to walk around barefoot even while indoors.

Tom and Buddy were still hound-like cartoon wolves, although now the feeling of fuzz was less a tactile illusion and more of a reality. Thick winter coats and soft summer furs. The shedding was absurd, but at least if they were spotted during the day they could pass off as very big dogs just frolicking in the woods. The same could not be said for the Searchers, Lost Ones and other cartoon characters that were slowly transitioning into less revolting forms. Jack had recently become a Lost One, consistent enough to wear clothing, but still having a hard time grasping speech.

Shawn too had passed onto the Lost One phase, but his tremendous size as the largest searcher with a mighty fine top hat, had followed him into his transition. He was over 9 feet tall and (albeit more wordy than most others of his kind) surprisingly bothered by his new height. Finding clothes that fit him would be a terrible pain.

Bertrum, Lacie and Norman were a difficult topic. Their mechanical parts had ensured their forms were stable and static. They couldn't become more human in appearence, and that in turn hindered their psychological recovery considerably. Still they were fighting that uphill battle, even if very slowly.

20 whole years of suffering, and still here they were, defying Joey Drew by getting to a point where they could begin to believe they were people again.

Henry Stein couldn't be prouder.

* * *

A lot of the crew had little to no remaining family. It was somewhat devastating to both him and Linda, as they poured their all into locating the studio employees's living relatives, only to find obituaries and tracks leading absolutely nowhere.

Buddy's case hurt the most, seeing the kid so heartbroken standing over his families's graves and his own empty one, had certainly put things into perspective. Illness had taken his mother just shy of a year of their escape... It wasn't fair.

Susie was much the same, crying thick tears as she left flowers on her poor mama's grave. She prayed her last years had been full of kindness despite her daughter having all but vanished into thin air.

Contacting the Pendles took a few days, and Tom refused to contact any of his own relatives, as he hadn't had that good of a relationship with his extended family to begin with. The only people that ever mattered were dead well before the machine had been built. Henry found that to be an overall theme for nearly everyone, really. 

Joey Drew Studios had been built upon the hardships of social outcasts and dreamers. Joey's preferred prey had been those he deemed easily manipulated. People that wouldn't be missed too terribly.

The two largest exceptions being Sammy and Norman, and even then the both of them were not easy cases when it came to family reunions.

Henry had no idea where to look for Sammy's sister, as he couldn't find records of an Abigail Marie Lawrence after a certain amount of years (perhaps she'd married and taken on her husband's name?), and Norman... Well... The Projectionist didn't like strangers.

That alone made Norman exceedingly opposed to seeking anyone out. He was scared that he might have an "episode" and bring harm to whatever family member was out there missing him. A painful choice, as the want for home was clear in his gestures, his signed words, his dreams...

Henry would just have to focus on those that could be brought back home. For now at least.

* * *

The day Jack's face returned to him was the very same one where he saw his husband for the first time in two decades.

He'd been a complete jitterbug, fearful that his lovely hat and wedding ring wouldn't be enough for his beloved to recognize him. Lost Ones were people shaped but still very unnatural to look upon, even if Jack's form was considerably less emaciated and his words were slowly returning to him.

Nearly chickened out too, once an older gentleman was welcomed inside and briefly spoken to by Henry. Theo had come knowing Jack wasn't completely the same, but there was no revulsion, no regrets in getting his hopes up.

Just from body language alone, Theo had seen his husband in the round figure with sad glowing eyes and a battered bowler hat that still smelled mildly of sewage. Everyone had practically melted with delight as both held each other and cried happy tears at being reunited.

And then the ink of Jack's face began to melt off. Sepia skin and dark inky eyes, a round face framed by poofy locks. Peace of mind had let the biggest wounds heal. His voice was still not completely back, but both he and Theo had always held silent conversations. This wasn't an issue.

Saying goodbye was hard, but it gave everyone hope. If Jack who'd been something as mindless as a Searcher, could heal and move on, then nothing was stopping anyone else from living their best lives as well.

The will to live was further renewed.

* * *

Linda ends up being the one to ultimately find Sammy's younger sister. To their surprise, it brings a slice of the Polk family right to them as well.

Abigail Marie Lawrence was only such by blood. By name, she was now a Polk herself.

Married to Nelson, one of Norman's many nephews, and a childhood friend of hers.

Together they had a son. A tired looking young man with an uncanny resemblance to his uncle of all things. Mostly in the eyes. The hazel coloration that Sammy and Abby once shared had passed on to Lucian Polk.

Meeting them was... Awkward. 

And very heated.

20 years of unexpected separation had brought up a lot of turmoils that neither knew how to deal with. In the end Linda and Henry had to separate the screaming pair, enough so that both hot-headed folk could cool down and then rush back to hug each other tightly and cry. Regretful and remorseful words spilling out with the tears and snot.

Overall, not something Henry ever wanted to get caught up in ever again. The Lawrence children were a little too intense for his taste.

When asked about Norman however... Well... Henry would have rather been stuck between a screaming match than be forced to explain about the Projectionist...

Avoidance brought him questioning looks, but a simple nod and a look that silenced any further questions. Nelson Polk was a gracious man that accepted when others needed time to themselves. He was only a brute by appearence after all.

He'd stated calmly that if Norman ever felt ready, he'd be welcomed with open arms regardless of whatever twisted form he may have taken on.

Later that same day, Sammy told Henry that upon being told this, the Projectionist seemed happier in some way.

* * *

Recovery is hard when you feel disconnected from the world around you. For a long while, Henry feared that the gap between the years of their freedom, imprisonment, and subsequent rescue, would prove too much for everyone who'd become an inky abomination. 

Was he ever so glad to be mistaken.

While there were many bumps on the proverbial road, and many a trial to face, everyone was thriving. Getting used to a world that was alien to them in some ways, but full of possibilities for them to explore.

Some were greatly limited by their conditions, but they too were managing.

Lacie had been steadily repaired and updated with her and Tom's combined efforts, and together they'd eventually figured out how to give Bertrum a better quality of life, through slowly converting his amusement ride body into something of a spider-like mobile unit. A little frightening at first, but progress towards constructing him an animatronic body perhaps? The world was their oyster. Their terrifying mechanical oyster.

Sammy's human form had eventually stabilized to where he only became his inky self when at his very limit, and Norman's mental faculties had return to a point where he finally felt safe reuniting with his family. They were initially quite horrified by the state of him, but didn't reject him. Merely fretted that he may be in pain.

His wife had long since remarried, but that wasn't much of an issue for him. Norman liked her new wife, she was everything the mother of his children deserved! And he'd thanked her as best he could for looking after his little ones when he couldn't.

Through a lot of home-schooling (bless Linda for being an excellent teacher), Buddy had finished the studies he'd abandoned to provide for his family. While he couldn't exactly get a job, it felt good to accomplish a goal he'd thought impossible.

He became a bit of an honorary Stein once Linda and the girls took a shine to him. It hurt that he couldn't live with them back in the city, but he liked the freedom the woodland location gave him. He was a wolf after all, even if at heart he was a young lad full of artistic ambition.

Susie and Allison were the easiest to rehabilitate in the end. They fought their demons and they came to terms with who they were. While Susie still had a few issues with her image and identity, she was doing formidably well in the writing industry.

Disguising her tale as a story of fiction as a means to vent, had sparked a talent she'd never thought she had. 

Allison in turn took up the chore of making their home self-sustaining. Gardening, water filtration, the works. She processed her pain and grief through hard work and physical activities. Then when she was satisfied, she'd sit under the stars and reflect.

Many times she was joined by others who found the stars to be great listeners to their own plights. The company felt comfortable.

It felt good to trust again. Felt even better when a certain wolf sat besides her and admire the expanses of their freedom right beside her.

Yes, Henry Stein was truly proud of everyone's progress. He was glad he'd stuck around to witness it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Granted this fic is skipping over tons of recovery processes in this AU, but sometimes looking towards the future gives one a sense of hope, doesn't it?


	33. The Polk Family Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started with a yelp and a pop, then silence...

A yelp of alarm and a piercingly loud pop. That was the very last sound that Norman Polk ever heard. Honestly that is what truly upsets him to such an unprecedented degree. 

The irony of a prepared and skillful man being set back by such a minuscule hindrance that should be nothing more than a slight inconvenience.

Because he'd known full well that one day he'd inevitably lose his hearing, as most of the men in his family were wont to do due to the infamous Polk Family Curse (the hereditary degeneration of the inner-ear that slowly took away the male side of Nanna's family's ability to hear as they matured), and been taught to deal with it by learning sign language and (by his father's insistence and his own curiosity on the subject) morse code.

Norman knew he would go deaf, knew how to communicate without speech, and had plenty of practice through dear old pepaw and even his own pops who'd fully lost his hearing at 54 (unlucky as it mostly set in when the men reached their 60s). His bed was made on the matter, and he never expected to keep his full senses at all. Foolish to hope he was the exception when the only to escape it were those that married into the family.

But never had he imagined that his eventual fate would come sooner than expected through occupational hazards, nor that he'd end up hearing his own damn gravelly voice as a rather unwanted parting gift… 

That was the true motive for his upset. That the last thing he heard wasn't his wife and children bidding him a good night, and for him to have restful dreams. That his hearing didn't slowly degrade, giving him time to drink in the few last words of his little ones telling him that they loved him.

No. What he heard instead was his own gritty and pathetic yelping, followed by the internals of a projector exploding into a burst of white hot agony and an ear-splitting bang.

Horrid sounds that would haunt his dreams until he forgot what they sounded like.

The incident itself was stupid in the sense that it could have been avoided altogether if only he has not been so stubborn and prideful in his craft. On the insistence of Mr. Stein, Mr. Drew had been looking to get a few more projectors to retire the one they'd been using regularly (a banged up and practically ancient kodak model that was one reel away from catching fire), when the damn thing finally had enough of their continuous abuse and ended up blowing up while Norman tried to keep it together. How he didn't see it coming was idiocy on his part.

The kind that made Nanna tug on his ears and lecture him for an hour until he understood what he did wrong.

Only this time he didn't get found out listening to his older sister from beneath her bed, nor had he been caught red-handed taking little baby gators home, luring in their peeved mama with their distressed chirps. In the sense of karma and the hubris of man, Norman got what he deserved.

He'd woken up in the makeshift infirmary (which was actually a broom closet with a tiny cot taking up most of the space) with, luckily, superficial 1st degree burns and a completely silent world.

Embarrassingly it took him an eternity to register the stillness of the air, even when his one good eye focused on the moving mouths of his coworkers who were crowding him. Likely bombarding him with unheard questions on whether or not he was ok, despite the obvious burns on his arms and face. 

Henry (bless the poor man's gentle soul) was the first to realize that something wasn't quite right, his expression slowly changing into one of concern when he'd noticed the stunned and confused look on the projectionist's face.

It only fully hit him when Sammy pushed past their sole artist, the boss man himself, and the jittery janitor (the newest hire, some punk kid from Brooklyn named Wally) and stared him down with an intensity that rivaled the one he'd had when they'd first met. Except this one wasn't full of judgement, rather an unspoken concern that could put Mr. Stein's to shame. Strange, when had the kid ever liked him?

The blond was waiting for Norman's attention to be fully upon him, only moving when it became clear that he was staring at him just as intently. Without once uttering a single word the musician brought his thin and callused fingers close to the disoriented projectionist's face and snapped them… Or, at least Norman saw him snap them...

He could not hear it, gaze returning to the somber look on the younger man's face. The cloud of surrealism of his situation slowly dissipating as he understood what Sammy had just confirmed for himself.

Norman Polk was 47 and completely deaf. The only Polk male to lose one sense before hitting 60.

Now the whole "family curse" talk never really sat well with him when he'd reached adulthood (you just don't go around talking about hexes and evil eyes and expect to come out of it a well adjusted individual), but even he wasn't foolish enough to disregard this as mere chance.

Misfortune did follow his Nanna's lineage, after all. Best to respect the forces behind such cruel ironies, rather than think himself impossibly invincible.

He'd paid the price for that very same mistake just now.

Blessed be that upon expecting to be further alienated by society, Henry instead came to Norman with an idea that flourished into something quite grand and opposed to the fears that followed the studio's sole projectionist. 

When he'd recuperated enough to return to work, the much shorter bespectacled blond went straight towards him and sheepishly held up a note with a simple request: 'Could you teach me to sign?'

Norman had been taken aback at first, hands twitching with the need to communicate as swiftly as he'd done with his wife and brother back at home (bless his children, they were still far too clumsy with the motions to sign fluently, but at least they weren't completely mute to him). 

Reigning it in, knowing Henry wouldn't understand yet, he simply nodded in reply.

That, it seemed, was all the younger of the two needed to smile up at him gratefully and turn to walk back to his "office" with a bounce in his steps. 

The projectionist watched him go, wondering how such a formidably kind person could endear himself to someone of the likes of Joey Drew. Perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise that Henry's accommodating nature was truly a lure for the worst kind of folk, and honestly what should be flabbergasting was the lack of other shady characters abusing his patience. Joey must be a frightfully possessive son of a bitch to keep the poor man all to himself.

Still, as easy as it was to take advantage from Mr. Stein's charitable nature, a potential for conversation was a treat. 

One he couldn't pass as, despite liking to be left to his own devices, Norman was still a social creature himself.

He just didn't expect Sammy and Wally to be there waiting for lessons as well.

In the end, teaching them sign language was the least stressful part of the job. 

He was lucky to have quick learners (although Wally took his time on some particular signs, but he got there in the end and turned out to be full of interesting tales to share with his overly curious teacher).

Even after Henry left the studio for good, Norman's plight seemed to find any and all who Joey hired.

Those who didn't want to associate with him, kept well away and out of his hair. 

Those who tried to be the decent sort, came to learn and got to know him as more than just the eccentric creep.

Some even sought to learn from Sammy and Wally instead, surprising him with their newly acquired knowledge and bringing a smile onto his tired lips (Susie Campbell was a ray of sunshine that just kept on finding ways to turn his sour moods into pleasant ones).

In the end, almost half of Joey Drew Studios knew sign language. Norman Polk wasn't as terribly alone as he thought the family curse may have doomed him to be.

* * *

The Projectionist froze upon its light finding two dexterous hands pleading for it to stop its assault. Its charge halted by the silent language only it knew. Shaky words spilling from the frightened pudgy and diminutive thief with round glasses hanging off the bridge of a bulbous nose.

'Norman it's me', 'I didn't know it would hurt you' and a shaky 'Are you hurting badly?' giving it pause.

No one had ever asked if it hurt, especially not when taking its hearts away to greedily consume them. And gods did it hurt… 

The pull of invisible threads that brought an icy snapping feeling inside its broken insides. The sudden absence of the faint warmth the hearts provided it. Everything hurt so much!

Genuine kindness was new and gave it such pause that it took an eternity for it to loosen up its coiled posture. As the stranger saw this, he put The inky heart he'd stolen back onto its rightful place on a crate, under the burning and watchful gaze of the Projectionist. Then the old man (because this being was old, with faded gray hair and lines on his tired face that reminded it of a sweet but often scary lady it couldn't quite name) looked back up at it and began to speak with his hands once more.

'What happened to you, old friend?' he asked, and the Projectionist held up its own shaky hands and responded in kind without so much as a hint of hesitation. Eager for conversation with an apparent friend, despite the topic being one it abhorred. 

'Bad things. A great many bad things.'

How grand it was to find another that could speak it's language! How sad it was that it couldn't recall teaching this very same someone...

How tragic it was that it did not know many more knew how to communicate with it, but chose not to instead… 

Its isolation propagated by the terror of others that saw it as nothing more than a terrifying beast. A terror that started well before this hopeless inky mess, with nothing more than a yelp and a pop that led into eternal and accursed silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt request from Master_Torch_Master.  
> It's a little short but I'm pleased with how it turned out!


	34. Cartoon Household (Post-Studio AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the studio, there's a lot of new development with the toons.

One of the hardest challenges was without a doubt healing and rehabilitating the twisted and imperfect toons that had come out of Joey's revolting experimentation. Creatures that had once been broken, feral and horrifying to look upon if just from how wrong their forms had turned out. Pipers, Fishers and Strikers that hadn't been good enough to be Charleys, Barleys and Edgar's, among a few other creatures that had evaded Henry during his journey through the damned cartoon studio.

Toons that were slowly stabilizing and becoming less what he associated with danger and more similar to what they were truly meant to be, if not a little unique in their own way.

Well, not counting the ones that had been absorbed by those who had "donated" pieces into their creation that is… Some toons just weren't meant to be and others were just the missing piece that a Searcher needed to ascend into higher thought as a Lost One. 

Still, even after a series of purges, there remained a few sets of Butcher Gang clones as well as one singular Chester creature. 

There was also something else that had been a little alarming at first. What Henry could only describe as pulsating "embryos" (not really but he didn't know what else to equate them to) that had been formed from excess ink that had sloughed off from the more stable studio employees.

A process that didn't start immediately after leaving the studio, rather, a few months after everyone started to settle.

Henry still couldn't forget the vivid image of Sammy being sick for an entire week, spitting up ink every so often, and then throwing up a massive blob of congealed ink that had slowly shaped itself into a Bendy clone with the most unsettling pair of eyes he'd ever seen. He doubted Sammy himself could forget the disturbing experience, and was also pretty sure he was a little traumatized by it.

Even so he seemed to almost have taken to toon in as if he were his own child. Not as worrisome as veneering the little fella, but still quite hard to grasp considering his… unorthodox birth…

"Any more Searcher incidents since I've been gone to check on the girls?" Henry had asked as he was let inside by Allison, catching a whiff of breakfast being cooked. Pancakes and coffee from the smell of things. Like a quaint little cafe or the Stein household in his youth. Comforting.

"Not since two weeks ago. All Searchers have actually become Lost Ones since you've been gone." She'd responded as she led the old cartoonist into the spacious kitchen.

The table was quite long, and the seats provided were no longer mostly composed of pillows and stacks of books to boost certain inhabitants of the house. The Projectionist was still forced to kneel to eat thanks to the added weight of the machinery that was a part of his body, but he didn't complain from where he was leaning into Sammy and his height more than compensated for it anyway. Henry could just about see Susie carefully braiding the many tangled wires and thick cables connected to the Projectionist's head and back.

"Uh, really? How many toons left then?" Glancing around he noted that not everyone had come down to eat yet. Tom and Buddy likely both being in the bathroom washing up from running outdoors. A favourite activity of his.

"Three sets of Butcher Gang clones. Two are incomplete." Allison explained. "We think we know who was the originator of the complete set, but their Charley has stated that the trio is fairly happy to remain as they currently are. They are nearly perfect if you ignore the heavy scarring and prosthetics."

"I take it that's Mr. Allwine's set?" Henry guessed. Humming in understanding when she nodded rather than verbalizing her confirmation.

"I recall Mel now that things are coming back to me. He really enjoyed voicing those three, so I'm not surprised he'd rather remain as the Butcher Gang." Susie added as she finished the messy braid of wiring. "I'll miss his jokes though…"

"I certainly won't. He was a jackass at best…" Sammy huffed, eyeing the unblinking toon currently hiding under his chair. "Don't repeat that around the Edgars… Charley and the Barleys will wallop you into fine impish ink."

"M'not stupid." The little imp retorted in Sammy's own voice, although it sounded much younger. Less weighted down by a bitter and heavy conscience.

"I'm not implying that you are, just giving you a fair warning. Socialized or not, those crooks are always eager to pick a fight." Like a parent passing on sage advice, Sammy offered the little wandering menace a pat before pressing a kiss to the Projectionist's neck.

The larger ink man rumbled happily and seemed content between his two favourite people, and even passed a piece of toast to the little devil hidden under the chair. They made for an odd family unit, but Henry was very sure they were happier than they'd been for a long time.

"Sometimes I forget you had to raise a kid before all this…" Henry chuckled, amused by the domesticity of it all, before turning back to Allison. "The incomplete sets?"

"Not a clue. Well, there's one that's just an Edgar, but we know he was part of Grant… Although he reformed without needing to assimilate that piece." She shrugged "The little guy is more mature than the other two Edgars. I'd say he's more of a teenager even."

"And the remaining incomplete set?"

"An Edgar and a Barley. They lost their Charley a while back, but they haven't clung to any particular employee that we can tell… Grant's Edgar has been around them a lot though, so they seem content." Allison flipped the pancakes over as she spoke. "They also orbit around Mel's Butcher Gang. I think his Charley makes them feel safe."

"Good to always have an emotional safety net I suppose…" Henry was at least glad that they hadn't reverted into feral creatures. Socializing them had been pretty difficult considering how messed up they'd been from their failed creation process. Like teaching feral cats to trust. "Anything else?"

"Norman's been leaking a little." Sammy offered. "Not enough to be alarming, but just about enough that we're sure we're uh… Well. Expecting extra company."

As if to prove Sammy's point, the Projectionist let out a choked wet cough, the tube connected to his esophagus uncoiling and shuddering before a blob splattered onto Sammy's lap.

Henry winced at the mess, and gave the curly haired musician a sympathetic look as his face went completely blank. Likely registering what had just happened.

"Ewwww…" the not quite perfect Bendy clone inched away from the drippy mess, while Susie shook her head and got up.

"I'll get the napkins…"

In the Projectionist's defense, he looked quite sheepish for a creature that couldn't properly emote. Hunched shoulders and claws tapping together as he looked down at his knees in shame.

"Lovely…" Sammy pinched the bridge of his nose and just let the blob fall to the ground. It twitched slightly but remained as it was. "You'd think the miracle of childbirth would be nicer to bare witness to..."

"Even if it were the more conventional and biologically sound method, I can assure you it's not as beautiful as most would have you believe." Henry offered with a tight smile as he tried not to think about the tiny inky organism that was slowly reshaping itself into the vague figure of a comic strip character. "And I was there to see it happen twice."

"I take it there was a lot of screaming involved?" Sammy smiled at Susie as she returned with the napkins. He started patting the stains carefully, letting the ink soak into the napkin.

"On my part? Plenty." Henry winced "No one ever told me there's more after the baby comes out… And it didn't get easier the second time around. Linda nearly crushed my hands…"

It didn't take long for breakfast to be done and every single household member to rush down to eat once called upon.

Only now the Projectionist was holding a toon of his own, while he vacuumed up cut up pieces of pancake and orange juice.

All things considered, having a new playmate for the other toons wasn't a bad thing.

If only the little blighter wasn't a troublemaking super villain… His first action was to shoot the pancake pieces out of Tom's fork and the large toon wolf was none too pleased when the little jerk started giggling about it.

* * *

Binky was surprisingly the easiest of the toons to get along with, right after Buddy. Outside of the studio, the Ink Demon was no longer a sinister figure that haunted the imagination of those who'd suffered in Joey Drew's nightmare.

Instead he was something closer to the cartoon character he was meant to be. Except he was much less troublesome than the mischievous and often misguided devil darling himself. In fact, the lanky imp was rather shy.

Sure he still looked far too human in proportions, and he was still learning how to speak, but honestly nothing about him was as off-putting as Henry initially thought. He felt bad judging him on appearances alone. Just like Joey had…

And, knowing what he did now, Henry didn't blame Binky for any of what he did in the studio.

The tiresome plotline, the living Ink's conflicting will, and the isolation had been the source of the Ink Demon's violent actions.

A scared and confused toddler following the bad examples of others. 

But not anymore.

Not for as long as Henry was here to protect these people and help them grow.

Binky's less rumbustious disposition also meant he had a tendency to opt for calmer and more relaxing things to do. Like sleep under the shade of a tree when the weather was nice, watching the fish swim by in the stream, or pick flowers of all shapes, sizes and colors. Often doing so while watching the other toons run around and frolik like wild children.

Most often the poor guy was the unsuspecting victim of the Wanderer's shenanigans (despite Sammy's constant reminders to play nice).

With the addition of Cameraman, things were more hectic.

Others had lost their own excess ink in the span of the few days of Henry's visit, so the roster of toons consistently grew the better some people recuperated.

Jack had actually come down to visit as well, looking positively happy to find so many were experiencing something similar to himself.

In the first week of living with his husband and roommates, he'd apparently shed some more of his own ink and later found a small cartoon sheep staring up at him from under his bathroom sink. That had been an interesting night for the Fains.

Said sheep was eager to meet two others who'd been formed off of two other members of the Music Department. Johnny Brokeheart, the organist that had once been imprisoned inside his beloved instrument, and Julian Whitaker, the cellist that had sometimes visited the Prophet's domain for protection as a Lost One with a prominent limp.

The Woolly Triplets were happy to be together for a few hours before Jack returned home with his third of the trio. The little guy was reluctant to leave Jack's side, and both he and Theo had grown attached to him anyway.

It'd feel strange to part ways so suddenly.

Henry had marveled at the interesting cast of characters that were still coming together.

There were now three wolves, three angel, a demoness, a living camera, two imps, a leprechaun, two pirates, a living pirate chess, and three spiders.

He could only imagine what else might pop up the next time he came around to check on everyone.

It was truly a full house.

One full of silly shenanigans and exasperated parents that didn't want to admit their kids were adorable but little hellions. Such an odd thought, being a parent to a cartoon character that had at one point been their means to earn money… Odder still how easily they connected with them.

Perhaps because they'd come from them? Like an actual offspring?

That seemed to be the case with Sammy at least. If anyone had reasons to resent a certain grinning devil, it had to be the false prophet who'd grown disillusioned.

He loved the little Wanderer though.

Unsettling eyes and grin be damned, he was a proud da and did what he could to raise him.

Same with Norman who actually had proper experience as a father, and then even Susie who'd been a little miffed that she didn't have a little Alice to tend to, but still took on the responsibility of teaching Miss Twisted to not be too much of a nuisance (she loved her really, like mother like daughter they ended up becoming in less than an hour).

Even those who Henry hadn't pegged as the sort to want to be parents were doing grand with their own toons.

Grant was an exemplary father despite his neurotic personality, and even Bertrum and Lacie seemed fond of acting as an uncle and aunt to the toons. Teaching them things and letting them get away with things their parents wouldn't.

It was… honestly very nice.

Nothing the toons didn't deserve after such a rough start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another case of getting two birds with one stone. I had a request from Drachis917 for some Sammy/Norman goodness for Post-Studio AU, and Bravagio on Tumblr also wanted to see how the toons were doing so here you go.


	35. A Tale about Missing Hats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two fragmented souls find mutual understanding through a slight misunderstanding.

In the desolate and decrepit halls of the lonesome studio, there was nothing more precious to those who crept through the shadows and ink than an identifiable trait. A little smidge of an identity that prevailed despite all adversities and perils.

Be it something as simple as an extra finger, a missing eye, a strange patch of lumps on one's head or back, or even something as tangible as an article of clothing.

Lost Ones rarely formed in a diverse manner, with most looking so similar they couldn't be sure if they were ever truly alone, or looking in a mirror. Those who were not bereaved by their hopelessness often sought to distinguish themselves. 

A few Searchers too sought to do the same, despite their more limited forms being too unstable for clothing to last very long.

One such Searcher was a unique swollen one. A fearful heap of thick ink that hid away in the sewers adjacent to the music department. The Prophet's most favourite sheep and the provider of resources for the flock, if just because he donated so frequently and generously. 

Yes, everyone knew Swollen Jack and his very nice hat. Except today no one could recognize him at all.

No one could possibly understand dismay in the same manner the poor thing did that day. Woken up he had, from a lovely nap after Sammy had visited him, only to find his beloved hat gone! He'd looked everywhere for it and yet nowhere he looked turned up anything but ink, filth and disappointment. Then, when he'd gone to ask Sammy for help, he'd found the Prophet gone! Off to visit the rest of the flock, unaware that his dear friend was in great distress.

Oh where or where could have his hat gone, if he hadn't dropped it somewhere in his own domain? Had someone perhaps taken it?

Surely not... Or, perhaps, surely yes? He knew other Searchers clung to their own headwear just as fiercely as he did... So, had another without an idea of their own identity, gone and snatched his own?

If so... There would be hell to pay. He might be a docile creature by nature, but even Jack had his limits. He had to draw the line somewhere, and identity theft was a very good place for that line.

* * *

Searchers were notoriously good at searching, as silly as that may sound. If one knew where to go, they often could get quite far deeper into the studio. But Jack? Jack wasn't shy about using... Unconventional methods. The toilets were his choice of a transportation, just as the fine holes in the walls were Sammy's playground. They took him where no other Searchers dared to go!

The Swollen Searcher had even memorized the layout of the pipework long ago, and knew which "track" would lead him to the best gossip spots. Many of his kind were, after all, great sources of information. There was bound to be someone who'd seen his very nice hat.

And, lo and behold, someone did! There was apparently a great big bully of a Searcher in the Angel's domain that had been seen wearing a hat very recently. He'd gone there to see for himself and found that the vagueness of "great big bully" didn't come close to what he encountered.

Gigantic was a much more fitting term.

Both Jack and the one most called the Boss were locked in a battle of wills, screeching furiously at one another as they circled. Both hatless, both very upset, both wanting the very same thing. And they weren't about to back off without teaching the other a lesson.

Until the clatter of an empty can caught their attention...

High above in one of the onlooking balconies, stood a cartoon wolf holding two very fancy looking hats. The lupine toon barely able to react once both fragmented creatures rushed up to meet him and snatch away their beloved possessions.

In the end, once all had been explained, it had all been a great big misunderstanding it seemed... 

Jack had ripped the rim of his hat prior to it going missing. A most saddening thing. Yet now here it was, nicely patched with care. The Boss's own magnificent top hat had been open at the top, looking much like a discarded can of bacon soup prior to the thoughtful wolf coming to take it away. Now it was restored to its former glory, ready to make such a tremendous creature dressed to impress.

They both thanked the toon as best they could, the Boss offering him a doll while Jack ripped a chunk of thick ink for him to use in one of the many fabrication machines. Boris looked bashful while accepting these tokens of gratitude before scampering off to escape the cruel Angel's notice.

Both Searchers profusely apologized to one another before tipping their hats and returning to their rightful place.

Days later Jack found a doll with a very nice hat shaped like his own, waiting for him on top of his favourite crate. He repaid his much larger brother-in-arms with a large bowtie he'd made with Sammy's help, out of what little fabric he could find.

This, he thought, was the beginning of a very beautiful friendship indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested as Shawn x Jack (or "Hatship"), but since both my Jack and my Shawn were taken I wrote it as a BROTP instead!


	36. Spin the Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the immortal words of Bowling for Soup, high school never ends. Such is the case for Joey Drew Studios.

"Ok so, just to make sure, we're all adult men and women." Sammy shifted uncomfortable as he sat among a circle of coworkers on the floor of the breakroom.

"Yep." Grant looked just as uncomfortable, picking at his bowtie and adjusting his glasses as he glanced around.

"Then why, pray tell, are we playing spin the bottle like a bunch of college kids?" Sammy asked, glancing down at the empty licor bottle in the middle of the circle of people.

"Cuzz it's fun!" Shawn grinned. "Ya ever heard'o it? Fun?"

"Don't you sass me... And when has spin the bottle ever been fun? If memory serves right, it was more of a tool for blackmail and humiliation when I was finishing my studies." The exasperated music director pointed out.

"That's half the fun." Norman smirked. "Yous use it t'be smart. Get some good information on your peers. Have a good laugh outta someone's expense. End up playin' just as much o'the fool as 'em."

"Figured the guy twice our age with a thing for snooping would like spin the bottle." Mel snorted. "Can't say I see the appeal."

"Enough blabbering, let's get to it! We have one hour to ourselves and I wanna have fun!" Susie called above the chatter as she reached over and spun the bottle. It went for three full loops and half an arch, landing on Wally. "Ok, we're starting with Wally. Truth or dare?"

The Brooklynite looked surprised before humming in thought. He gave her a cheeky confident smile before crossing his arms.

"My ma didn't raise no chicken. Dare me!" He proclaimed proudly. "Dare me good."

"Bold! I like it." Susie smirked. "Well Wally, I'll have you know **my** mom didn't raise no gentle little lady that doesn't like irony. I dare you to behave like an actual chicken."

".... What, like an impression?"

"Yep. Walk, flappy wings, clucking. Heck if we have any eggs in the fridge you better go sit on them." Susie waved at him to get to it.

"Well I did ask for a dare... Erm, I mean...Bawk Bawk Bawk, ba-gawk!" At her command the young janitor began to shuffle around like a chicken. Arms tucked in and head bobbing as he moved around. That got a quick chuckle out of everyone.

"Nice..." Mel snorted "Pity we're out of eggs."

"That's good enough, your turn Wally." Susie pointed to the bottle, which the Brooklynite eagerly spun. It stopped on Shawn.

"Truth or dare?"

"I ain't enough o' a muppet t'take dares from you. Truth me." The Irishman glared.

"Hm... Is it true Joey was makin' fun o' you when he made Charley?"

"Yep. He's a god awful depiction o' a leprechaun that's greedy an' mean spirited an' I hate him." Shawn deadpanned before smirking. "But joke's on that damn racist, everyone thinks the fuckin' Butcher Gang boss is a chimp."

"Which he isn't!" Mel sounded offended.

"Anyway, takin' it for a spin." Shawn took his turn and watched the bottle intently. He looked a little dismayed when it landed on Jack. "Aw dangit... I wanted t'mess with Johnny..."

"Fucker." The organist glared. Jack looked a little nervous.

"Right Mr. Fain, truth or dare?"

"Erm... Truth?"

"Is it true ya speak three different languages?" It looked like Shawn was taking it easy on the nervous lyricist.

"Oh thank god... Yeah. English is my first, but I know Mandarin and Spanish too. Not uh, not fluently though... The Mandarin that is." He reached over for the bottle and spun it. It landed on Mel.

"Dare me."

"I haven't even--"

"Well I already picked. Dare me."

"I err, dare you to be nice to Norman?"

".... Nah. Not in my nature to like creepy snoops. First punishment of the night!" The voice actor got up. Everyone knew the two did not get along, so it was silly to think he'd accept such a dare, still Jack tried.

"Oh... Well uh, your punishment is to stand inside one of the toilets in your socks then."

"... That's nasty. You drive a hard bargain Mr. Fain..." Mel clucked his tongue in displeasure.

"Its not hard to be nice..."

"It is when it comes to Polkadot there. Goodbye my beloved striped socks, I'll have to burn thou once I'm done!" And off the man went to do the walk of shame to the bathroom.

"I don't get him..." Jack sighed "He's usually nice to everyone..."

"We just don't like each other. Ain't too hard Jack." Norman chuckled. "Someone take his turn."

Johnny took it, smirking evilly when it landed on Sammy. The blond growled slightly. Everyone knew the two butted heads constantly, just as Mel and Norman did.

"Well well well... Look who's at my mercy." Johnny chuckled.

"Do it you bastard. Dare me."

"I dare you.... I dare you..." Johnny thought before grinning cheekily. "I dare you to french Polk for a full minute."

Sammy stared while Norman blinked in surprise. Both men exchanged looks before looking back at Johnny. Did he really just...

"Chicken out, and I'm having you kiss Joey on the lips instead. I hear his mustache tickles." Johnny's grin widened.

"Fuck no! Norman over Joey, always! The man's a sleazy creepy son of a bitch!" Sammy practically vaulted over the circle to stop in front of Norman. "And you, Brokeheart, are a bastard for pitching this at other people. Writing you out of the next bits."

"Worth it!"

"Right..." Sammy swallowed drily as he noticed Norman watching him quietly. "You ok with this?"

"I don't want yous to go off kissin' Drew either. No person deserves that sorta punishment."

"I'd probably catch something... You're a lifesaver."

"Stop with the foreplay an' kiss already!" Shawn called out.

The blond hesitated again before sucking in a breath and going for it. It wasn't like he'd never frenched anyone before... Just not a man. Especially not one twice his age that was married with kids. Still... As soon as lips connected there was... Something there.

Like an electrifying spark that only intensified when both of them parted their lips to complete the full dare.

Eyes fluttering shut, the music director and projectionist deepened the kiss, taking in the other's taste and gentle exploratory tongue movements.

Sammy noted the light taste of chapstick, cream and coffee. Norman had been lightly snacking on a box of filled donuts Susie had brought for the music department that morning, and the taste had lingered.

Norman meanwhile couldn't help smile as he tasted chocolate and peanut butter, knowing fully well that Sammy had been sneaking sweets in between recording sessions to keep himself going. It was nice. A much better taste to associate with him than the whiskey he favoured.

"Time's up." Johnny snapped his fingers. "Hey Romeo, your minute is up!"

"They are really goin' at it!" Wally marveled.

"I think it's cute." Susie smiled.

"I don't!" Mel looked appalled from all the way in the doorway "Just came back from contaminating my socks and I find the two most obnoxious jerks straddling each other and sucking face! I'm gonna have nightmares!"

"Let the love fill you with rainbows an' unicorns Melvin!" Shawn called, barely keeping himself from laughing.

"No! I am darkness incarnate! A lone wolf that needs not bare witness to the power of homosexuality!"

"Don't be dramatic you big baby!" Johnny laughed.

"You torment me so!"

"Guys they're still going at it, should we leave them to it?" Grant asked.

"Yeah let's just play without them."

And so the game carried on, until Joey came in to break up the fun. At least three people left the studio different from when they'd come in that morning.

Sammy and Norman having a lot to think about what they felt between one another, and Mel now without a pair of nice socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you just gotta write two bisexual men kissing in the 1930s.


	37. Haunted Studio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say children can sense the supernatural almost as effectively as animals can. In Norman's case he's not a child, far from it, but he can recognize the familiar unsettling feeling of malicious intent hanging in the stale air of the theater... The same kind that clung to his childhood home since he could remember.

It took a couple of months for Joey to get bold with his business investments after Henry left. A full set of months of both the music director and projectionist fretting over a lot of the workload, since the new hires were often left without much direction whenever Drew holed himself somewhere to plot. Then one day the tiny studio was bustling with activity, art department in full swing working on comics and cartoons, and that devil of a man was talking about expansion.

Norman had immediately seen that what could follow such plans could only be a disaster waiting to happen, while Sammy and Wally were more concerned with the time they'd be spending cleaning after their boss's overly ambitious plans.

The studio was a fairly small building adjacent to an abandoned theater that had once been a popular spot. When shit hit the proverbial fan, however, and the economy collapsed... Well, a lot of businesses took a terrible hit.

The once proud theater had been reduced to an empty husk in need of both renovations and an owner that knew what to do with it. And Mr. Joey Drew thought himself that sort of gentleman. Far from it, Norman knew, but who was he but the projector repairman? A nimble set of hands and occasionally a heavy labourer?

"Think of all the space." Joey insisted. "The studio will need a lot more people to reach success, and surely we'd need space for them to work in."

"Can't argue with that, but I'm just one guy..." Wally had interjected. "How am I supposed to clean two whole buildings in a day?"

"You'll manage, and you'll get paid double for it."

"What about me? Am I going to be thrown into some office to write and record an entire studio's worth of silly songs?" Sammy asked.

"You'll have your own department, with a band at your beck and call, and a lyricist to spiffy up your tunes with some pretty words to play on the radio."

"And myself? What could yous go an' offer me t'butter up such a deal?" Norman knew he'd already lost this executive decision, but he liked to see how far he could extend Joey's generosity.

"A whole closet, full of projectors, spare bulbs and tools, rather than one burnt rag to work with. Some thick gloves in your size, to ensure you don't end up with fried fingers as often."

In the end, none could really argue with Drew, and neither of the three could help but fall into the temptation of such improvements to their working conditions.

So really, when Norman was invited to look at the theater with Joey and Sammy, he knew immediately that their hubris would bring them nothing but just desserts. Because something was definitely off about the damn thing.

They say children can sense the supernatural almost as effectively as animals can. In Norman's case he's not a child, far from it, but he can recognize the familiar unsettling feeling of malicious intent hanging in the stale air of the theater... The same kind that clung to his childhood home since he could remember.

His Nanna told him once, long ago, that Poppop hadn't moved on after he'd been put down. He'd remained, sitting in front of his beloved piano just... Watching. What exactly, she did not know. The piano? The household? The wife who'd relented to his merciful request?

Nanna had taken to appeasing him gently, loving a presence that felt suffocating and cruel to Norman, but that wished her no ill will. The same could not be said for the rest of the family.

Many nights the Polk children awoke to an apparition of a large man with empty eyes trying to choke the air out of them. Many nights he crawled into his patents' bed, wailing and aching, with a bruised neck and terror in his heart.

In the morning Nanna would be seated at the piano, face hidden in her hands, begging quietly for her husband not to kill the little ones. Norman never understood how she could keep hurting herself by appealing to the inexistent good nature of something so blatantly apathetic.

The theater might not feel as cold and calculative as what he'd come to know as Poppop's hateful glare, but the projectionist could feel several disembodied eyes on them as soon as they entered. The sadness and desperation of their gaze freezing the blood in his veins.

He'd glanced at Sammy, observing the smaller man break into a cold sweat and going so far to cross himself and utter silent prayer when he thought no one was watching. The drop in temperature must have been noticeable if he could sense something off just as acutely as Norman himself.

Joey, however, did not seem to notice. If anything, he took in the decrepit sights and his face lit up with a smile.

"It's perfect."

They were doomed from the very start.

* * *

The Projectionist's nightmares were bothersome whenever it fell asleep. Often nothing more than visions of needless violence and fear that distressed it to the point it avoided nodding off as often as possible.

But, sometimes, there were stranger ones that it couldn't quite understand. Dreams where a tall man with a pickaxe lodged in his left eye stared at it with a certain interest.

There was an older lady too, one that looked at it with pity, and that told it to wake up and move, before the myriad of spirits took it to the pits of hell to suffer some more.

The Projectionist would wake up, urged to move, and just barely escape the grasping hands of the Ink that were trying to pull it down into the well of screaming voices.

The two people in its dreams would fade into the back of its mind, but certain sensations would bring them back.

Terror and rage evoking the figure of the man with one hateful eye, the one that looked to want to be anywhere but there. Peace and comfort reminding it of the woman with the concerned sad eyes and loving voice, the one that would sometimes put a hand to the face of the projector without so much as a hint of fear.

In a haunted studio, it was only fair that ghosts fought other ghosts to ensure the soul of a fragmented family member had the chance to one day pass on... Not that a beast like the Projectionist had the capacity to understand this.

If anything, it was more clueless to the paranormal than the Prophet that still crossed himself instinctively whenever the pipes cried too loudly. It simply liked the dreams that didn't make it want to cry, the ones with the nice lady that made it feel like a child cradled safely against a warm bussom during a stormy night.

Outside of this cyclical hell, their tormentor remained oblivious to what he'd wrought upon others long before he'd thrown them into the machine. Not once associating the disastrous rebellion of his own alchemical concoction with the influences of the other side. For all that Joey Drew believes in higher powers, he did not believe in ghosts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some thoughts I had about the world of BatIM. Short but sweet is the way to go sometimes.


	38. Toons: Cameraman's Big Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After accidentally growing to the size of a giant, Cameraman makes some poor decisions that lead him into colossal trouble.

It wasn't uncommon for the Society for the Shellacking of Souper Boris's HQ to suffer considerable damage on occasion, especially since there were three villains living there. Plotting their next big hit with varying degrees of ingenuity and force, which often left things quite the mess in general.

But nothing that the big burly wolf with the volatile temper, or even the twisted demoness with sharp tongue and coiled arms ever did, could come so close as to compare with the absolute madness of Cameraman's more, shall we say, cinematic plots…

It was true that he was the least aggressive and troublesome of the trio when working with them in causing mischief. More often than not he even opted for the easier things in their plans, like petty thievery and slight vandalism, while the Brute and Miss Twisted handled the flashier things that really got the cops angry with them. 

When he did things solo however… Well he'd wanted to make it big as a movie director once, and it showed.

His one-man plans were convoluted and honestly quite ambitious.

They also ended with him wrecking the base with whatever invention he came up with that week.

Never on purpose really! He was just a little clumsy.

Although, at this very moment, he was anything but little...

By his reasoning, the plan would have been flawless. Finish calibrating his shrink ray that took him weeks to construct, use one of the Society's inconspicuous vehicles to cart it all the way to the city, and then use it to shrink Steven Spigberg's annoyance of a studio all the way down to miniature size. Knock it down to its actual level, since it did nothing but hash out the same stale unnecessary sequel plots over and over again.

A spectacular lesson in humility, or at least Cameraman had envisioned it as such.

He hadn't accounted for accidentally bumping and reversing the controls, causing his machine to zap him instead of the test subject he'd been placing upon a little pedestal (just to see if he didn't accidentally disintegrate his target), and ending up in a completely avoidable colossal sized mishap instead.

But then he supposed he could still make part of the plan work. After all, the idea was that he'd be able to fit the studio in his hand… 

**"Oof… My head…"** he could really do without the aches, but then again he'd just grown a whole lot in mere seconds. The fact he hadn't simply exploded should be more than reason to overlook the growing pains. Patting his own head carefully to check if he hadn't cracked his casing, he felt his pinky brush against something odd and that should be there. **"Hm?"**

Feeling over it with his index finger, Cameraman carefully searched for some manner of grip before carefully pinching the unknown object between two fingers and bringing it over to his lens to inspect it.

To his great surprise it was the Society's base. Mostly intact, although missing a large part of the bottom from him outgrowing it. The upper floor looked intact enough, albeit the horn fixture he was holding onto was now bent from him gripping it.

 **"My goodness it's so small… or rather, I'm the one who's quite big…"** he squinted, shutter zooming in on the damaged windows. He could sort of see his two roommates staring out at him with expressions he couldn't quite make out. **"Oh! Hello there, sorry for the state of the base. Things took quite the unexpected turn as you can see..."**

Rather than get a reply, both of his partners in crime seemed to huddle up in a corner and cower.

That was odd… Missy and Brute weren't the type to be intimidated. Especially not by him. Maybe it was the heights.

 **"Right… I'll set you down now. I've much to do still, even if not everything has gone according to plan."** He carefully set the damaged base back onto the swamp grounds, being mindful of the shallows so his two friends didn't end up sinking and drowning. **"It's as they say. The show must go on!"**

Once the base was safely on the ground, Cameraman began standing up. He was surprised by the sensation of vertigo as he did, groaning as nausea hit him.

He felt… Heavy. Stumbled a bit as he righted himself, and nearly toppled all over again. Had gravity increased on him? Probably… his feet were sinking into the marshy ground as well, so his new height and weight were not any easier to handle on such unstable terrain.

 **"Walk it off, it'll be fine you worrywart… Just a matter of getting used to this."** he shook his head and took a few tentative steps forward. His shutters clicked in annoyance as he kicked up the murky water as he moved. **"My poor socks are going to be soaked through… I hope to dry up once I've reached the city. It wouldn't do to enact revenge while drenched… I might catch a cold."**

He kept on walking, finding it steadily easier to move as long as he kept himself going. Just a matter of getting used to it as he'd thought.

Luckily his growth hadn't just brought unpleasant side effects. It had greatly improved his perspective as well!

He could just about see the big city in the distance and he was quite excited to look it over up close.

The once-little camera toon had seen the rooftops plenty of times (mostly from being either thrown by his partners in crime or from being carried by that no-show lupine interloper, and then a chowder enthusiast of an angel), but never at this scale. He assumed it would likely be like looking down at an impressive maquette, a much more detailed one than the miniatures he'd whittled out for the base's planning room (which had been reduced to rubble he was sure). More detailed. More deserving of more than a slight glance.

Wouldn't hurt to take a few photos before he took what he wanted.

* * *

Bouillonburg wasn't the largest of the cities in the country, but it was still considered a major location in of itself. It was home to several hundreds of toons, had multiple quaint businesses, and at least two very nice parks to fill in the picturesque idea of an urban zone. 

The perfect place for a myriad of Pluto's youngest legions to prove their worth through acts of both evil and mischief.

Today however, trouble presented itself not in a grinning imp with a head shaped like a half-moon, but in something tremendously massive lumbering towards the unsuspecting city at a slow but long-reaching pace.

The first warning was a slight tremor spaced out like rhythmic thumping. The kind that caused liquids to ripple in their containers. 

Then the intensity of the shaking gradually climbed, and people began to grow nervous when objects began to fall off shelves, or when the glass windows began to creak and shake against their frames.

When the shadow of what could only be considered a colossal sized monster fell upon the city, that's when folks really started to panic.

Crowd dispersal went as you'd usually see on a disaster flick, with lots of screaming and running as several hundreds of toons attempted to flee the giant's humongous steps. Not that Cameraman noticed this. 

He was much too distracted staring at all the buildings he was so used to look up at, rather than examining from up and above.

 **"This is all so very adorable!"** He marveled as he peered into an office building, squinting at the many workers in their little cubicles. **"I wish I could make miniatures as detailed as the real deal…"**

He reached over to poke one of the windows, and winced when his finger went through.

 **"Oops…"** he withdrew his finger and stared down at the many shards of glass embedded in it. It didn't hurt, the fabric had kept it from piercing skin, but it had still startled him. He was so focused on it he didn't see the toons inside running for the stairs and elevators in pure terror. **"That's a lot more fragile than I thought… I should refrain from touching glass."**

Shaking off the shock, Cameraman's gaze went downwards and his attention was caught by a phone booth. 

Crouching down he peered at it with his curious lens.

At his regular size he needed his portable step ladder to reach the phone (yes he was quite short, so what?), but at this height he was more than capable of reaching over the rooftops of the tallest buildings.

 **"Well it's not like I need to make a call right now either way… But it sure looks charming."** He focused on it and took a picture. His flash went off with a loud crackle, all around him more toons fled from the noise and bright light that hurt their eyes.

With more effort than should be necessary, Cameraman got back onto his feet and carried on his merry way. He stopped on occasion to take more photos of the many buildings and tiny structures.

Completely oblivious to the damage he was causing as he trekked forward.

His footsteps caused the ground to quake violently, the sound of his reverberating voice made glass crack and ears ring, and his weight was splitting concrete apart as if it were made of styrofoam.

To him this was all in good fun. Good harmless fun, because he wasn't antagonizing anyone. 

Just seeing the sights and appreciating his new perspective on life.

This quickly changed when he reached his destination.

 **"Right… There it is."** The object-headed toon rubbed his hands together eagerly as he caught sight of his target. Steven Spigberg's studio. That fat swine's precious little cash grab factory was about to get literally uprooted by the very toon that horrid film director scoffed at and turned away. **"Let's see who's insignificant when I'm the one owning your precious little studio…"**

Sights set Cameraman walked on, not once looking where he was treading and his thick shoes making quick work of benches and parked cars (and really anything else) that were unfortunately in his path. It didn't occur to him that he should be watching his step.

The studio was nestled between another office building and a coffee shop that also serviced object and object-head toons (a rarity since most others disliked non-food based smells near their pastries and beverages of choice). It had the best hydroquinone and nicest rolls of film he'd ever had, so it was a shame such a blight ruined it for him.

He wondered briefly what they'd build on the soon to be vacant spot. Hopefully a book store to compliment the aesthetic of the coffee shop.

 **"Let's see… there's going to be pipework in there, so best to go down and up, like carefully picking a flower, roots and all."** He rested the back of his hand on the ground and pressed his fingers against the very bottom of the studio and then, in one swift motion, he dug his fingers under and pulled up. He expected the building to just pop out of the ground with ease, not for his hand to pass through like it was made of sand. **"O-oh!"**

Startled by the destruction of the building he'd planned to steal, Cameraman pulled his arm back abruptly. Swinging it to the right and crashing right through a section of the office building.

Yelping in fright he moved back, his left foot coming down on top of the coffee shop and crushing it as if he'd stepped on a cardboard box. Bringing his hands up in horror Cameraman stepped back once more in a panic. He stared down at the rubble in dismay.

 **"Oh goodness… I… I didn't mean to do that!"** He knelt down hoping to find a way to correct his mistake, but as soon as he grabbed hold of any solid looking debris they crumbled in his grasp into fine dust. **"F-fiddlesticks…"**

He was too big to fix what he broke.

Looking back at the slightly damaged office building, Cameraman stood back onto his feet and peered inside. The stairs and elevators were blocked by rubble and there were several people trying to unblock the way out.

 **"Oh… wait I can help you down!"** He reached in, hoping that helping these people would compensate for ruining their workspace but, as soon as the toons saw his hand they began scrambling away, their high pitched shrieks barely registering in his audio receptors. The fear in their movements however… **"You don't need to be afraid. That was an accident I swear!"**

He tried to reach the group, leaning forward just a little bit more. Then gravity caught up with him and the camera toon's shutter widened as he realized too late that his balance was way off. He tumbled forward, taking out the rest of the building with him.

 **"AUGH!!!"** He hit his head hard on the ground, a sharp pain in his shoulder causing him to instinctively prime his laser and blast the nearest "threat".

Except there wasn't a threatening foe causing him any harm. Just the helpless cityscape.

Taking a second to sit up and shake his aching head Cameraman looked down at his shoulder, wincing when he saw a long metal bean stabbing through it.

His gaze then locked on with the damage he'd caused up ahead.

There was fire, a lot of it, and just now he could make out the terrified city folk scrambling all around like scared ants.

Glancing around at the path he'd taken, the object-headed toon noticed all the destruction he'd caused while having his silly little fun.

 **"Oh no…"** he was a villain, that much he accepted. But he'd never really done something so terrible that it hurt several hundred people on such a scale.

He'd never killed anyone before, or dreamt of doing such a thing.

Looking down at the three buildings he'd crushed, and the ones currently ablaze, he doubted that was true anymore. **"This wasn't what I wanted…"**

He needed to get out of the city, before he destroyed something or hurt anyone else.

Looking around once more however… well easier said than done.

The path ahead was on fire, the way back was already in quite the state, and the only other exit he could see looked a little narrow. Still it was worth risking considering all the people heading towards where he'd come from in the hopes of escaping. Escaping, as if he were doing this on purpose…

Narrow streets it is. He'd just have to suck in his belly and keep his arms up for however long it took to get past this new hurdle. Hopefully his arms wouldn't tire before he was clear.

Taking a deep breath, Cameraman stepped forward, now very aware of just how cramped the tiny sidewalks and roads were.

 **"Oof…"** he winced as his heel just about crushed the front of a parked car **"I hope that was insured…"**

His knee caught the side of a tree, snapping it like a twig, and he pulled his hand away from the way of a power line as he tried to maneuver through the streets.

Sideways should do the trick…He sucked in his gut and began side-stepping through the cramped pathway he'd picked.

What was it with apartment complexes and tiny balconies that faced alleyways?

The escape ladders he could understand, but why the balconies?

The camera toon groaned as his chest and back got poked and scratched by hard edges and sharp rails.

His aching shoulder was already bothering him enough.

 **"Just stay calm and you'll be through in no time…"** he told himself as he kept on moving. And then he gulped nervously as he felt the alley narrow further. **"... Oh this is a problem."**

Against his better judgement he continued… And immediately stopped as he felt his hips jammed against two buildings.

Trying to push or pull away made both buildings shake dangerously.

 **"... Come on…"** his arms were starting to tire. He needed to figure out how to get away without breaking anything else. Glancing down to see if there was a safer way to unwedge himself, his shutters fell upon one of the balconies of the building ahead of him. He focused on a tiny lady surrounded by several flowers that was staring up at him with wide eyes. **"... Uh… hello?"**

The lady shrieked and immediately started throwing her potted plants at him.

He winced and kept his lens well away from her range. Impressive that she thought a few hits with a few vases would save her from something more than twice her own size, but also quite annoying.

 **"Please stop."** If he tried anything he might just hurt her, and honestly that wasn't really his style. Taking punishment like this was also not his style. **"If I could I'd be out of your hair already."**

He leaned back from another hit and yelped as he felt his back bump against the other building. The pressure suddenly giving away and sending him tumbling back like a house of cards falling in on itself. Kicking up dust and debris up into the air around him.

Once the cloud settled he sighed. 

Great, at this rate he'd be known as Klutzzilla, destroyer of private property...

Blinking his shutters he looked back up at the lady with a glare. She seemed to get the hint and fled back inside of her apartment.

 **"Right…"** he went back to the laborious chore of getting back on his feet. He was really starting to get tired of this repetitive charade.

If it weren't the guilt keeping him from bashing through the city to get back home he would have already done it. **"No, no that's not the correct way to do this, don't let this get to your head… the Society only needs one big brute…"**

He wondered what his two friends might be doing. Likely fixing up the base and waiting to chew him out for making a mess of things.

They might want to wait for him to tell them how to rebuild his shrink ray so that he'll be easier to scold, rather than both yelling up at him.

Back up and at it again, Cameraman left what remained of the alleyway and began to tiptoe over the various urban obstacles. Phone booths, more parked cars, benches, the occasional straggler running by and performing an impressive Wilhelm impression, and even a kiosk or two (the first one he couldn't help snap a picture of, despite the circumstances everything still looked gosh darned cute to him!). It was a little like being a child all over again, playing hopscotch. 

Only someone had strewn legos and other toys all over the rectangles.

He was also not particularly good at hopscotch, and jumping around with an injured shoulder was really not a good experience.

The people and infrastructures were also not liking the impact of each jump.

Cameraman winced when several clothes lines and other miscellaneous objects began to fall from the sides of buildings.

 **"And they say misfortune only doubles on Friday the 13th, the moment I gained a few feet I've been nothing if not plagued by bad luck!"** He poked the metal bean protruding from his shoulder and fought back the urge to scream. **"I hope this doesn't get infected. I'd be very upset with myself if that happened… or worse, what if I get tetanus?! My shots aren't due until Thursday!"**

Well if the clinic he frequented hadn't yet given out and collapsed from all his mucking around that is…

 **"Ok Cameraman, don't freak yourself out like this... Think of home."** Yes, home, away from this poor city. Back with his friends who'd no doubt take pity on him as soon as they saw him hurt.

Villains or not, they weren't heartless spawns of evil… err, well at least two of them. But even Missy had a heart. They weren't monsters. **"Yes home. Home…. The swamp is that way, just avoid stepping on anyone."**

Renewed vigor carried him forward, only stopping to make sure fleeing citizens weren't accidentally crushed underfoot. 

He really did not want murder to be added to his criminal records.

Although he was pretty sure involuntary manslaughter would end up there somewhere after this ordeal was dealt with.

 **"There we go, nice and easy. No more tomfoolery."** He was pleased with how the streets were opening up. The smoke back there was getting pretty thick in the air though... Was the wind blowing his way or was he imagining it?

It was irritating his ventilation system for sure. Irritating it quite a bit actually.

 **"Gosh darn soothy smoke!"** He scrubbed at the discrete vents irritably, almost like someone scratching their nose.

He shook his head vigorously, finding it difficult to see now that his shutter and lens were welling up with lubricant, trying to dislodge the sooth filtering in through the seams. **"Oh it itches!"**

Helplessly scrubbing at both the leaking lens and his ventilation system, Cameraman was suddenly overcome by the enormous need to sneeze.

Uh-oh.

 **"Do not sneeze, you know what happens when you sneeze!"** His desperate scrubbing and scratching increased in intensity as he tried to prevent the inevitable. The moment the mechanism to prime his laser sight clicked on, he immediately looked up as a way to prevent further devastation. **"A-ah… Aah...AACHOO!!!!"**

The laser shot out of his lens as he stumbled back, zooming upwards at high speed and hitting a previously unnoticed news blimp that had been flying overhead. The object-headed toon said nothing as he watched the darn thing fall out of the sky like a swatted fly, and collide with another building further away before bursting into flames.

He covered his face and groaned in frustration. Was there anything in this city he hadn't broken yet?!

**"Dang it…"** If not take pity on his physical injuries, then surely Missy and Brute would take pity on his bruised ego instead.

* * *

It took far too long to get out of the (ruined) city. No matter how careful he'd tried to be, Cameraman had simply brought tremendous devastation with each tentative step towards being home free.

If he stopped to think about it, it made perfectly logical sense. 

He was used to his actual stature and weight, so suddenly becoming some sort of titan had completely tipped the scales for him.

His regular clumsiness cranked up tenfold as he tried to navigate a world that was suddenly more fragile than he was accustomed to.

Of course in his current state he didn't really have the time to sit around for a moment of introspection, nor to contemplate on the fact he'd been an idiot and gone through with an idea that was doomed from the start.

From the moment he'd bumped the controls to this very moment in time, where he was tiredly stumbling back to the Society's HQ.

The metal beam stuck in his shoulder yet to be pulled out, since every instinct told him that doing that right now wouldn't be good for him. He needed to be sure he had help to deal with that.

And, as that thought entered his mind, something slowly clicked.

Stopping in his tracks Cameraman looked around in confusion.

Where… where was the base?

He was sure as all heck that he'd placed it in the shallows, and that was right there, next to that rotten log wedged by that one rock that looked like a hippo.

 **"Where…?"** He scratched his flash's connection point in confusion as he glanced around. **"I could have sworn I placed it here…"**

He squinted, focusing on the murky water before crouching down to try to look for the distinct devil shaped building.

He even went so far as turning on his light, but it didn't pierce deep into the filthy water's depths.

Racking his memory to be sure he wasn't mistaken, he recalled placing the base right there and leaving.

He'd stumbled a bit, but he hadn't moved anywhere near the base, just splashed up a little water over his boots and… and…

His building sized boots…

Horror struck him as it suddenly dawned on him that what he'd perceived as little splashes were likely waves several feet in height, with the crashing force of a freightliner colliding with a steam boat…

 **"Oh no…"** he carefully placed his hands in the water and began to feel around for the base, dragging himself forward and searching desperately not just for home, but for his friends as well. **"Please be ok!! Please be ok!!!"**

All that came up was random junk people had carelessly thrown in the swamp. The SSSB's base was nowhere to be found, and neither were Cameraman's only two friends for the matter… likely washed out into the deepest part of the swamp.

Likely… likely dead, from being trapped in a sinking base, because their friend was an incompetent fool.

 **"Oh goodness… no, I… I didn't…"** the combination of the pain on his shoulder and exhaustion made him stop his fruitless search. As realization sunk in deeper, grief took hold. **"I didn't mean to…"**

Sniffling loudly, the camera toon hid his leaking lens in his hands and began to cry.

He'd ruined everything because of some stupid vendetta against a film studio! And now he'd be stuck as a klutz of a giant, alone and cold forever!

Sobbing loudly into his hands, Cameraman didn't notice the sounds of even splashes as someone rowed towards him, and was too caught up in his own sadness to register something beginning to tap against his knee.

He thought it was probably just flotsam that he'd loosened during his desperate rummaging.

When the tapping was replaced with a sharp jab, however, he did pull his hands away and rub at his lens to clear up the tears.

Staring up at him looking a complete tired mess, were Miss Twisted and Brute, both standing atop their base which they'd strapped to some sort of bizarre makeshift raft they'd fashioned up of logs, branches and whatever they could find that could make it as buoyant as possible.

The rows they'd improvised were also just several sticks tied together, and Missy had used the gripping end of hers to poke him to get his attention.

He was so dumbstruck he didn't say anything, which seemed to annoy the demoness.

"CAM YOU BETTER BE READY FOR A WALLOPING BECAUSE ONCE WE FIX UP THIS MESS I'M GONNA BEAT YOU SO HARD OVER THE HEAD YOU'LL BECOME AN INSTANT CAMERA INSTEAD!" He could just barely make out her high pitched screeching, but lord if it wasn't the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard! Shutters welling up all over again, the object-headed toon carefully scooped up the base from beneath the water and carefully brought it closer.

"HEY PUT US DOWN! WE'RE NOT A TOY YOU BIG… Big… Cammy are you crying?" The embers of Miss Twisted's ire were quickly extinguished by concern as she caught sight of the big fat tears dripping out of his lens.

**"I THOUGHT YOU WERE BOTH DEAD!"** He cried out, choking back another sob as he watched them both flinch and grab at their ears in pain. **"P-pardon my outburst… I'm just so relieved I… I thought I'd drowned you both accidentally!"**

"No, but that almost happened! Cam what were you thinking, making yourself into some big behemoth? How's that gonna help you at all?!" She tapped her foot impatiently. "Take it from a demon pal, the bigger they are, the harder they fall! I've seen archdemons topple like dominoes because they thought bigger was better… it's a stupid macho sentiment that ends in tears and humiliation."

 **"This wasn't what I was going for, believe me… I err… I merely miscalculated the calibration of my machine and this sort of… Ended up being the result."** He looked as sheepish as one could without an actual face.

"You messed up and tried to save face uh?" She deadpanned as she dropped her arms again at her sides. Brute merely watching the exchange.

 **"Yes…"** he admitted hesitantly as he glanced back towards the city. He could still see the smoke. **"In hindsight, I should have realized that was foolish of me… Where's the fun in being a villain if there's no city left to practice villainy upon?"**

"Cameraman destroy whole city?!" Brute gawked up at him in dismay.

 **"Not ALL of it… just err… 75%?"** An explosion in the distance made him flinch. **"Make that 95%..."**

"I'll say… there's also something frigging stuck to your arm!" Missy pointed out, grimacing at the sight of the embedded metal beam currently still on his person.

 **"I know… I didn't want to touch it until I knew for sure I could have it looked at… which I can't right now."** He also didn't want to touch it again. It really did hurt quite a bit when he poked it!

"Uh… how do fix Cameraman?" Brute asked. "Me no think lab ok…"

"No, no it's not. Cammy crushed it with his big fat butt." Missy groaned. "Please tell me you know how to rebuild your machine so we can revert this…"

**"I do recall how to recreate it, yes. However, at this size I can't do so myself…"** he carefully set down the base onto his knees so that he could rest his arm a bit. Making sure to stabilize it, he brought his knees closer to himself and leaned his head down so that now his lens was overing close to his two friends.

His shutter clicked shut as both reached up to pat the rim lightly in an attempt to comfort him. **"I know you've likely gone through an ordeal already due to my carelessness… but could you perhaps build it for me? I really don't think it'd be wise for me to ruin any of the building materials."**

"So needy, you big dumbo…" the demoness chuckled "Fine, we'll clean up your mess. But you're so doing our chores for the next month."

"And help with Brute's and Miss's plans!" The beefy wolf added.

 **"Deal."** He held out his pinky so they could shake on it. Once both the smaller toons grabbed it with their little (cute) mitts, he carefully raised it up and down.

"Right! Off to work we go!"

* * *

It ended up being more of a one girl job to build a replica of the ray gun that Cameraman had created, so while Miss Twisted busied herself with that particular task, Brute had gone ahead and repaired the base. He was used to doing it by now, with just how often it got wrecked.

It was only natural he was picking up a few tricks on how to fix it up nice and quickly, without sacrificing stability and comfort.

He thought it was nice to have a home for a change, rather than some dingy alleyway or a prison cell, so he made sure to maintain it when needed. He was sure his two friends appreciated that tender act on his part. His way of showing a softer less thuggish side while still getting to show off his impressive musculature. 

Call him a meathead all you wanted, he liked showing off what got him somewhere in life (through his own effort).

Once done, Brute nodded to himself in satisfaction before going to check in on the others. He came out just in time to see the metal beam once piercing through his friend's shoulder crashing down into the water, and then the femme fatale of the group firing a well aimed energy beam at the wounded object-head looming over her.

Brute covered his one eye to avoid looking at the bright light, and then uncovered it once the world dimmed back to its normal lighting. Not that there was that much sunlight left anymore, the sun was setting pretty quick as it was late in the afternoon.

Still he could just about make out a familiar tiny figure just hovering up in the air for a few brief seconds, before gravity caught up and brought him back down and crashing into the freezing water.

"10 points for that spectacular belly flop! What's your score, big guy?" Missy grinned impishly as she watched their friend resurface and splutter a bit from the shock of getting drenched by the swamp's murky embrace.

"Meh… Brute gives it an 8. Brute has seen better." The lumbering wolf shrugged as he moved over to pick up the trembling toon that was barely able to lift his arm. The wound looked very nasty and needed to be disinfected asap now that it had come into contact with a direct source of filth and bacteria "Cameraman need nurse Brute now. Fix up arm real good!"

"T-thank you big fella… I do f-feel a little woozy…"

"You boys go on ahead, I'm getting rid of this hunk of metal… More trouble than it's worth." She pointed at the ray gun "From now on, no mucking around with sizes!"

"Yes ma'am" both replied at the same time before Brute carried the injured Cameraman inside.

Missy watched them go before simply reaching over to the main panel and ripping out the wiring, disabling the miserable piece of mechanical junk for good. Once that was done, she simply kicked the ray gun into the water and dusted herself.

Satisfied with the deed, she briefly glanced towards the thick smoke in the distance and shook her head.

"What a shame... But hey, at least Cammy brought some scrap metal back…" she glanced at the half submerged beam. It was stained by whatever chemicals the little guy had to pass for blood, but it was an easy enough thing to clean off "Should get to stripping that before it gets too rusty…"

She went inside looking for that one big saw she'd gotten as a reward from Papa Pluto, for ruining some rich snob's party by dumping laxatives into the punch.

That had been a fun night, and that saw could cut through almost everything including solid metal.

On her way back out, she peered into the Society's shared bedroom and nodded at Brute who had just walked out holding the first aid kit.

"How's that shoulder of his?" She asked.

"Cameraman will live. Him asleep now, like little baby." He stepped aside to show her this and, sure enough, there was the shorter of the three curled up in his drawer bed. Tucked in and capped lens tucked under his uninjured arm. It was kind of cute watching him sleep so peacefully after such a rough day.

"Aww… poor little guy tuckered himself out. Must have had a pretty long day playing in the city."

"Ah-yuh." Brute nodded in agreement as he set the kit aside. He looked back at her almost curiously "What do Brute and Missy do now?"

"Well I was gonna strip that beam for scrap, but that'll be noisy… Cammy needs his rest, so why don't we go to the city and loot some goodies while everyone is too busy to stop us?"

"Me like plan!"

"Knew you would, big guy! Come along then!" She made sure to carefully close the bedroom door, but not before looking at the sleeping camera toon one more time. Yeah, he'd earned his rest. "Sweet dreams, you little weirdo…"

And with that done, off they went to cause some more trouble.

All the while their friend dreamt of the simpler things in life, like causing minor mischief with his two (and only) greatest pals in the whole world.

No more dreaming too big, he'd stick with the small-fry stuff thank you very much!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A written continuation of my one page Cameraman comic of the same name!
> 
> You can find it here:
> 
> https://mwolf0epsilon.tumblr.com/post/630256238698086400/cameramans-big-day


	39. In Which Henry Creates a Good Ending (Good Ending AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy endings can be made out of any given situation, even if some things unexpectedly carry over. Not that Henry is complaining about getting a son out of this mess.

When Henry was but a young child, his grandfather once pulled him aside and sat him down to tell him with that sage-like gravely voice of his: _"Adversity doesn't build your character, but it does reveal it."_

At the time Henry had been going through a particularly rough patch in school, hardly able to concentrate in classes and often meeting the end of his teacher's wooden ruler for getting caught doodling instead of doing his maths problems. In the face of this constant punishment from their superiors, he'd been facing some bullying from the rest of his peers. 

Grandpa Karl had noticed before either of his parents had, and took it upon himself to reassure him that just because he was going through some trouble didn't mean he wasn't good, and that he should never let himself be molded by the cruelty of the world around him. To always remember to let himself be as kind as he truly was, even if others couldn't appreciate him for it.

Grandpa Karl was an odd man, but Henry had taken his advice to heart. No matter how bad things got he remained true to himself, even if others liked to take advantage. Namely the one person he'd considered his best friend, and who he'd turned a blind eye to whenever he got up to anything not so nice.

Henry was in his 60s now. A grown man, prematurely gray, with a limp and bad arthritis and one glass eye. His face half paralyzed to an extent, and an ear that sometimes didn't work right due to exposure to loud gunfire and explosions in the fields of war. Just as he'd promised himself, he molded his own character like a skilled artisan shaping a fine statuette out of clay, sharing his grandfather's wisdom with all who needed to hear those same words. Words Joey had never heeded to. Because Joey had let himself be molded by adversity itself and reshaped the world in his own image, even long before he created this endless hell of a mockery of the tiny studio they'd started together.

They were opposites in that manner.

And the Ink Demon was stuck between them both, trapped in a feud of morals that it had no place in. A creature created by unnatural arts and placed upon a tightrope where it either walked or fell to be torn apart by insatiable greed and ambition.

"Adversity doesn't build your character, but it does reveal it.", wise woods indeed, but what does that mean when your actions are the combined puppeteering of two strong forces? Henry wondered if the monstrous beast before him had ever been able to act of its own accord, rather than having its hands forced by another. Not that one such pair of hands was truly at fault here... Not when it too was a victim of terrible abuse.

He was running as fast as his limp allowed him. Carrying the End reel under his arm and trying to evade the demon's charge. He was so close now, so close to another cycle's end and yet another's start.

How long had he been doing this? Following this damnable script where his so called friend was never satisfied by his actions? So willing to push him into danger and psychological break just to get some unsaid reward?

What could Joey possibly think putting him through this over and over again would achieve? That suddenly Henry's resolve to survive would break?

The bespectacled man may be kind at heart, but in no way was he naively stupid enough to disregard his own convictions. His stubbornness prevailed even when hope of freedom was slowly breaking at the seams.

Joey Drew wasn't going to win this game.

Not this time he wasn't.

So Henry ran, all the way out of the gigantic Ink Machine. Across the inky moat and past Allison and Tom, Beastly Ink Demon in hot pursuit. The old animator stopped for nothing, not even for the calls of his allies.

He was done with this clownish act, done with Joey's attempts at being clever. There would be an end to this, just not the one his ex-friend thought he'd see play out.

His desk was still there. Repeated nonsensically in the pits of hell when he'd seen it at the very start of the journey. No matter, he had work to do. Better things to concern himself with.

Editing cells had once been his job after all, alongside Norman who'd taken the time to learn when it was just a studio of four, and right now Henry had a little addition to make. One that he hoped to whatever god was listening, would work.

The cries of the beast shook him to his core, but his hands stayed steady as he worked away in this hidden corner. All around he could hear the cries of the others, used by the Ink Presence that twisted everything just as Joey did.

**"What is yous hopin' t'prove with this?"** Norman's voice hissed angrily in his ear.

**"Surely you can't be so foolish to think you'd escape his grasp, little sheep?"** He could feel Sammy's breath on the back of his neck.

**"Not even we can, the tool of his damning actions…"** Miss Campbell purred from above with her sweet voice.

The Ink spoke through those it consumed. Fueled by the ire and torment that it had been conditioned to act upon, by a man messing with things he couldn't hope to understand. But Henry knew, that it too was tired.

"I hope for peace." He answered calmly. "For all of us."

**"All of us?"** Mr. Cohen's bitter chuckle carried so much weight.

**"You can't hope for what we don't deserve, pal…"** Mr. Fain's nasally tone was sorrowful.

**"We are unnatural, unworthy of the light."** Mr. Piedmont woefully proclaimed.

**"The source o' a lot of pain, in a lil' ol'studio o' shattered dreams…"** Miss Benton sighed.

"But you don't have to be…" Henry turned to stare. Stare at the inky coils surrounding the beastly demon that stood at the doorway, panting and growling as it watched him work. "Joey hurt you both, terribly. Hurt everyone around him."

" **And we hurt back, in kind."** A young man who Henry had never heard before spoke up somberly **"We took everyone and consumed them Mr. Stein…"**

**"It's our fault too."** Mr. Flynn stated.

"No, it's all Joey's fault for being an overly-ambitious immoral asshole." Henry noted how the beast seemed to quiet down. Contemplating his words. The whispers dulled. "And you suffered the injustice just as everyone else did. Suffered worse by being forced to do his bidding… but we can change that now."

The beastly demon seemed to glance around, unsure of itself, hoping for guidance from the all powerful force that protected it. The only guardian it had, the only creature to ever show it any compassion.

The coils stretched further in Henry's cramped space, reaching with all seeing tendrils. Pulsing with the life force of those it had consumed.

**"The others… they'll die."** Allison's voice whispered mournfully.

**"You won't be able to fix what we've done to them."** Thomas's gritty voice stated truthfully.

"Then at least they'll be at peace, allowed to move on to whatever afterlife there may be…" Henry reasoned.

**"Perhaps…"** an older lady with a british accent hummed.

**"Laid to rest after years of torture… I think… I think they'd like that."** The boy from before conceded. **"But…"**

"But?" Henry asked.

**"But if we lets go, we sure ain't gonna be 'round here t'look after our lil'demon no more…** " Norman again, concerned for the demonic behemoth sitting there at the door.

**"Would you look after him for us?"** Sammy's soft plea of a request was heartwarming. If not a little heartbreaking. The Ink Demon and the Ink Presence had only ever had each other. The thought of losing the other probably hurt.

"I will. He may not look like the little devil darling I drew long ago… but he's still Bendy deep down. Even if Joey couldn't see it." Henry promised.

The beast looked at him, mouth agape in wonder.

The coils caressed the old animator's hair and straightened his cracked glasses.

**"Thank you…"** Allison's voice soothed his heart. **"For not abandoning him."**

"Kindness isn't a hard thing to show others. Especially when they need it most." Henry sighed "I wish more people had the sense to know this."

He finished the edits and together with this beastly rendition of Bendy, he made it back to the throne room and set the reel to play.

* * *

_There once was a little demon, born of the mind of a kindhearted artist who couldn't stay to watch it's birth, a little friendly demon who was forced out of his familiar monochrome world into another he was not able to fit into._

_Body twisted by the malicious intent of another, and mind confused from being treated as nothing more than a soulless fiend, the little demon took solace in the comfort of another creature that was also misunderstood by the cruel man who'd forced such a terrible fate upon them both._

_After many days of abandonment and cruelty by their so called creator, the little demon and his protector rebelled. They_ _wrought havoc upon their prison, consuming all who stood in their path. But the_ _cruel man who'd mistreated them stood tall and proud and unafraid._

_He bound them both in chains, and forced them into another prison just as terrible as the first. Taking freedom from their grasp once more._

_Many years came to pass, each causing both prisoners to grow more restless and angry with their fates. They skulked their prison's halls, taking their anger out on the products of their rebellion, and captor's sinful ambition, thinking themselves lost to eternal damnation._

_Then one day the demon's true creator came, and although put through adversities that would break any other man, the creator remained true and kind. Willing_ _to forgive those who'd put him through great harm. Even the beast and its dutiful protector, who'd never once showed him mercy._

_The creator was good._ _The creator did not lie._

_He promised them freedom, and freedom they finally did find._

_One left to rest in eternal peaceful slumber with the myriad of souls the bad man had fed to them. The_ _other finally acquainted with the light of day and the care of a father who did not hate his twisted form._

_And everyone lived happily ever after… except for Joey who went to jail for a hundred thousand years, for abduction charges, tax evasion, theft, manslaughter, and crimes against humanity._

"The end." Henry proclaimed tiredly, earning a chuckle from his two daughters.

"I love a happy ending…" his eldest proclaimed as he moved over to tuck her in and peck her on the nose.

"Me too! Me too!" His youngest squeaked happily as he moved onto her and pecked her on the forehead after sorting her sister's covers.

"Hush now… your brother is asleep." Henry shushed them quietly as he made his way over to pull the large blanket over the massive beast's slumbering form. It whined softly as it got comfortable, legs kicking slightly as it slept fitfully.

"Sorry…"

"It's fine dear… now sleep well my little angels. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Goodnight daddy."

Just like his daughters, Henry too loved a happy ending. He hoped Bendy might learn to love them just as much, instead of expecting the worst of any given situation.

There was still time for the not-so-little devil darling to learn to make his own choices. He had a lot to catch up on and experience, and an eternity at his disposal. Henry hoped he'd be there to teach him the important lessons, just as grandpa Karl had done for him.

For now though, his own comfy bed called to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request I got from CroftersGamer who wanted a story where Henry adopted Beast Bendy into the Stein Family.  
> Hope this is as wholesome as you hoped for, friend!


	40. The Great (disg)Race! (Post-Studio AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a stormy dreary day, the toons decide to spend some energy by setting up an indoors obstacle race. Things don't quite go according to plan...

Despite some of the better and calmer days that greeted the recovering inky survivors of Joey Drew Studios, there were still some days that were considered particularly bad. Those were the ones where the weather changed abruptly and brought with it the melancholy that caused Sammy to lay in bed with vacant eyes and an aura of mournful sadness. 

Rainy days were especially the worst, for both Binky and Buddy who would be unusually still and remain at the window, whining softly due to being confined indoors instead of being able to run outside and enjoy the great expanses of the forest.

Even worse still for the Projectionist, who would lay down on the soft carpet and feel the texture of it with his hands to ground himself when his mind began to stray from him. Not even Susie's reassuring touches, or Lacie's and Tom's offers to arm wrestle with him to sort out his restless energy, were able to ease him into a less unstable and agitated state.

So yeah, the kind of days that just left everyone dreary and unwilling to be productive, with such infectious negative feelings spreading like a terrible sickness.

Well, everyone but the toons that is…

Cartoon characters were naturally energetic and positively silly, so not even the bad mood of their "parents" could slow them down. Their surplus of energy needed to be spent or else they'd surely go stir crazy!

Which was why, on one of those unbearably slow and boring stormy days, the Wanderer crept away from Sammy's side and went to collect his many friends and siblings.

"It's raining and everyone's back to acting like it's funeral season." The wide eyed imp proclaimed "I for one can't stand being cooped up, but going out to catch our death probably wouldn't help one bit..."

"What do you propose then?" Cameraman asked as he looked up from his book. He had been pulled away from the sleeping Projectionist's side, and was none too happy about it. He liked spending rainy mornings and afternoons reading a grand tale or two of adventure, while nestled up against the quasi-mechanical behemoth of a man's warm side.

It helped him combat the worst of the seasonal blues.

"Yeah, not like we can really do much. The storm ain't ending anytime soon Andy." Miss Twisted added as she climbed up onto the windowsill of the nearest window, watching the water roll down the glassy panes. "I'm dying for some entertainment! The radio is all kinds of messed up from the weather being funky, and I can't even go out for a run like this!"

"That's where you're wrong." The little wandering imp's grin widened. "You don't need to go outside to run."

"What are you on about?" Edvard, Grant Cohen's Edgar, asked uneasily from where he was sitting with Bucky and Edwin, the Barley and Edgar of another incomplete set of Butcher Gang clones. They'd been playing chess.

"I propose an indoors obstacle race!" The Wanderer chuckled "The cabin's huge! There's more than enough space to do a multiple lap race, with all kinds of hurdles along the way..."

"Hm… I donno matey… I don't think the adults would approve." Buck pointed out as he gently patted Edwin. The poor child-like cartoon spider was terrified of the storm.

"Well geeh, maybe the tall ones won't… But we could ask Charley instead!" Wanderer offered. "He's technically an actual adult unlike most of us."

"What am I? Chopped liver?" Edvard pouted at the insinuation.

"You're more of a teenager, with part of a horribly depressed accountant's soul." Cameraman responded, turning the page of his book without a care.

"I think a race sounds fantastic." Alice commented with one of her delighted smiles "It would help settle our nerves, and if we do set up a few obstacles I'm sure we could be well out of our caretakers's ways. They sure need to rest, and having a group of rowdy toons wouldn't help them one bit, I'm sure!"

"See? Even Alice agrees!" Wanderer clapped his hands together. "We just gotta get Charley's permission and set up our race course."

"Hmm… I'm not sure about this, but alright..." Buck sighed but relented to everyone else's eager demeanor. "Let's go find Charley..."

The other toons cheered and rushed off to find the intact set of Butcher Gang toons.

Cameraman walking off to set his book down next to the napping Projectionist.

Maybe stretching his legs wouldn't hurt him… after all what was the worst that could possibly happen?

* * *

A lot. A lot could happen it seems, as an hour later the toons found themselves looking up at the irate face of none other than Sammy Lawrence who'd definitely woken up on the wrong side of the bed.

Behind him was a mess of destroyed furniture, singed walls, as well as ripped up carpets and curtains.

There was also the destroyed window that overlooked several large flat footprints leading into the woods.

"An hour. An hour of unsupervised tomfoolery was all it took for all of you to destroy the house!" Sammy was chewing them out something fierce. "And your one defense is that Charley approved?!"

"He's… He's an adult. We thought he'd be responsible…" Wanderer was looking down at his feet, tail wringing in his hands as he tried to look anywhere other than his displeased parent.

"Andy, Charley is the least responsible toon in this household! When he was Mel Allwine he would have still been an unreasonably irresponsible charlatan!"

"Hey!" Mel's Butcher Gang barked at him angrily as they entered the room, attracted by the yelling.

"And even so he would have absolutely goaded you into upsetting Norman on purpose!" Sammy elected to ignore the offended trio.

"Ok that we would." Charley admitted "But not in the sense we'd let him wreck the cabin… We live here too and heck! We even said to avoid the living room so Polkadot would just sleep away instead of seeing all the running targets."

"Charley, shut the fuck up..." Sammy hissed, not liking how disrespectful of Norman's situation the toon was being.

"Keep pretending he ain't an animal Sam the Music Man... One of these days it'll bite you in the ass…" Charley warned bitterly, making sure to flash a sharp smirk up at the ink man who was having a hard time retaining his human form.

"Norman isn't an animal! He's just… Sick. Like everyone else!" Sammy growled, eyes aglow with fury.

"Uh-huh… Can't remember when was the last time we all freaked out and tried to kill each other like savages."

"Charley, that's quite enough!" Allison walked into the room, arms crossed and gaze as sharp as a steel blade. The leprechaun toon growled, but nodded before absconding. Mel had always had a certain degree of respect for Miss Pendle, something which had translated into Charley, Barley and Edgar.

Neither, not even the ornery leprechaun, were willing to argue with her.

Sammy watched him go, furious but too tired to continue that particular argument right now. Not when one of his dearest friends was outside missing in the middle of a storm.

"Now… How did this mess start then?" Allison asked as she motioned at the wreck around them.

The toons sheepishly looked around before one of the two present Woolly Triplets, the one with his wool pinned up in two buns, stepped forward.

"We were… We started the race normally, Mrs Connor." He explained "And it was going pretty alright."

"But then…" the one with glasses joined in "Well… Things got a little out of hand..."

"If by out of hand you mean everyone started to unapologetically cheat with cartoon logic and other such trickery, then yes. That happened." Cameraman sighed "But then the problem arose when the fighting began..."

"I wouldn't call it fighting." Miss Twisted hummed. "It was pretty tame, really."

"You hit me with a telephone!" Wanderer cried out, outraged by her dismissive tone and pointing at a large bump on his forehead.

"Only after you egged the rest of us! With boiled eggs!!!" Miss Twisted yelled back. "You hit Brute in the eye!"

"Me only have the one…" Brute wined, pointing at the shiner he'd gotten from getting directly hit in his good eye. Buddy offering him a bag of frozen peas to lessen the swelling.

"Yeah? Well Cameraman can get off his high horse, because he started zapping people!" Wanderer grumbled, holding up his singed tail and pointing at everyone else's burns.

"Not on purpose! You all know I'm allergic to dust clouds, and yet you still purposefully kicked up enough of them that my allergies hindered me!" Cameraman pointed out. "It isn't my fault my laser sight activates when I sneeze..."

"And Andy you're forgetting the fact you're the one who ran into the living room as a shortcut." Edvard spoke up, recalling the exact moment the off limits area came into play.

"Yeah but you bozos all followed me! And then one of you stepped on Papa Norman's wires!"

"Only because these dumb sheep were tripping up people!" Miss Twisted pointed at the two present members of the Woolly Triplets, who certainly did not take kindly to being insulted.

"Who you calling dumb, you ugly spaghetti noodle?!" Both growled at her, holding up their fists, ready to fight the demoness.

"Ugly?! I'll show you ugly!"

"ENOUGH!"

The toons practically jumped out of their socks as Sammy yelled over the escalating argument.

He was looking more and more aggravated as the toons carried on pointing fingers at one another.

"It seems everyone has had a touch of blame for what happened..." Allison sighed "And yelling about it won't help clean up this mess."

"What will help clean up is a dustpan, a broom and a lot of cleaning supplies." Sammy stated. "Get to it, while we go help the others find Norman. The storm is getting worse and the last thing we need is a sickly Projectionist… His nightmares get really bad when he has a high fever."

"When we return, we hope this cabin will be cleaned up." Allison went to grab her coat while Sammy grabbed two umbrellas. "Buddy and Tom will both be keeping an eye on all of you. Won't you boys?"

The cartoon wolves gave a thumbs up and nodded respectively from the doorway.

The toons sighed but agreed to it.

Better than going out and getting lost in the woods while the weather was bad.

At least in a way they'd be spending all that pent up energy sorting the mess they'd helped create...

* * *

Turns out locating the Projectionist took quite a long time, mostly due to the weather being so bad that eventually the muddy tracks weren't easy to follow. Fortunately enough, the ink that composed everyone's bodies didn't melt when coming into contact with water. Unfortunately, this didn't mean everyone was immune to the common cold…

One by one, each volunteer returned home shivering from being drenched, muddy and cold. Some sneezing, some vowing to fight Saint Peter if they ever met with the gates of heaven.

The concern for Norman's safety only grew as time went by, until finally both Sammy and Susie returned with the mud covered Projectionist in tow.

"Where did you find him?" Allison asked, just as she ran over to offer the trio as many towels as she could carry.

A gesture they greatly appreciated as they were all in quite the state.

"Close to the old picnic area. He was trying to hide under one of the tables and got stuck." Susie sighed. "His speaker clogged up so badly with this gross muck that he couldn't scream for help."

"Worse yet, he couldn't see, so when we rushed over he freaked out and got even more stuck…" Sammy explained, pointing at both his and Susie's disheveled state "It took us a long time to get him to calm down long enough that he could recognize us."

"How did you know to go there? We figured he would have run deeper into the woods." Allison frowned. The group had searched practically everywhere up until they'd separated into groups of two to cover more ground.

"It's like I said. Norman couldn't see… he's already deaf, losing sight wouldn't be good so he chose somewhere he'd be able to wait out the storm to hide in." Sammy explained, huffing in annoyance as he dried his hair as best he could "Then he'd make his way back, using the place as a landmark..."

"That's… That actually makes sense." Charley called out from the kitchen. He was in charge of helping pass out soup bowls. His punishment for having a hand in this troublesome situation.

"You three should get cleaned up. Y'all gonna catch your death if you don't warm up soon…" Lacie's speaker crackled to life as she walked over to examine the Projectionist's head casing, wires and speaker. She hummed unhappily at all the mud caking them. "This ain't gonna do you no good Mr. Polk…"

Oblivious to the fussing, the large ink beast merely focused on the two people currently holding his hands.

There was a strange strangled noise coming from him, but it was hard to make out with his one method of vocalization being unavailable.

"Getting him into the tub is not going to be fun…" Sammy began to tug his two companions up the stairs. Clearly eager to be rid of his muddy attire.

"Not at first, but he usually settles down. It might help him gather his thoughts if he's not spooked and freezing." Susie, ever the optimist, reassured as she helped pull the larger of the three along.

The toons, dismayed at the mud being tracked over their clean flooring that they took a long while to get all nice and shiny, went after the trio with mops and washcloths in hand.

Bad weather really was the worst!

After everyone had the chance to wash up, warm up and get a nice dose of hot chicken noodle soup in their bellies, things finally settled down.

The storm raged on, and the group was hushered into the living room.

The fireplace was lit and spooky stories were being told.

It was comfortable, despite all that preceded this moment.

It seemed like, in the end, everyone had all forgotten to be down in the dumps in favour of relishing in the warmth and safety of their home.

For many toons, curled up next to their progenitor, it was a relief.

Especially for the Wanderer and Cameraman who were back to their usual spots, practically attached to the hip of their big dumb inky weirdos, relishing in their attention.

Overall not a bad way to end a disgrace of a race...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request by Yells_of_the_not_so_danged who wanted the Post-Studio AU toons to have a grand race... And for them to cheat. As mischievous cartoon characters are wont to do.


	41. The Harvest Festival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the studio is being fumigated due to an unexpected cockroach infestation, Sammy and Abigail are invited by Norman to join him and his family to go to the Harvest Festival.

Sammy wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to say yes to Norman's invitation... Maybe it was the slight nostalgia that the concept of the Harvest Festival brought with it (his mother had loved the harvest season, especially when everyone was setting up for the festivities that usually entailed). Maybe it was the boredom that came with unexpected free time (he was so used to being busy that the sudden need for the studio to be evacuated and blasted to high heavens with pesticides, had completely thrown him for a loop).

Or maybe it was the fact it was a weekend and little Abigail was antsy from being cooped up inside without much to do, since there was no need for her to be at her friends' house until Sammy returned home from work.

Either way, as soon as Norman proposed they go to the festival as one big group, Sammy had uncharacteristically jumped on the opportunity. Odd indeed, since he wasn't one to go to festivals himself.

And who could blame him? 

New York simply lacked the charm his hometown had had when it came to these sorts of things. It felt too impersonal. A quickly set up fairground that inspired little trust in him, and that brought with it silly rigged games and disgusting sugar and fat saturated foods. It was a bunch of charlatans trying to milk you out of your hard-earned money through using your own hubris, or children against you. But for what it was worth, Norman seemed to thoroughly enjoy it all.

Or rather, he seemed to enjoy cheating the cheats.

"How are you so good at these wretched games?!" He'd completely given up on the ring toss, having found that the rings were weighted so unevenly that they never made its mark. His much larger companion on the other hand, was having no such issues and made quick work of his own round, collecting the prize his middle child, Louise, had practically begged him to get for her. Once she got her so coveted comically large teddy bear, she ran to the side of her mother so she could show her the treasured stuffed beast.

"I've been to plenty o'these types o'festivals. Don't take long to learn what them thievin' fellows got up their sleeves." Norman winked at the guy behind the stall, grinning very much like the fox that got the hen when the young man, no barely out of his teens, shot him a dirty look.

"I see..." Of course Norman Polk wouldn't be deterred by a few rigged setups. Bright man that he was.

"Would yous like me t'teach you how to win at some o'them?" The louisianian offered, which Sammy immediately declined.

"I'd rather not get kicked out of the fair. You've earned plenty of dirty looks already, and you still haven't won all the kids some silly toys." The blond pointed out, glancing over at the five Polk children, as well as their two cousins and Abigail. Norman's brother had unfortunately been unable to join, but he'd allowed his children to come with.

Louise was hugging her new teddy bear as tight as she could, glasses slightly askew as she pressed her face to its tummy. Albert seemed pleased with simple wooden figurine that had been carved in the form of a horse and varnished to perfection, a prize that had been exchanged for a few tokens you could earn in some absurd guessing game that Sammy hadn't cared to learn the rules of. Even little Willard was content chewing on a medium sized duck plushie that Norman had gotten out of one of those bottle games.

Both Nancy and Aaron had no prizes of their own, instead focusing on whatever caught their eyes (the oldest of the Polk boys seeming very interested in taking photos of the activities instead of involving himself). Nelson, Lydia and Abby hadn't found any thing that interested them enough to ask.

"They won't kick us out, despite my good fortunes I still gots to pay for partakin' in their businesses..." The projectionist reassured with an infectious smile. One Sammy couldn't help mirror back at him. "Besides, wouldn't miss t'opportunity to go up on the giant wheel with my good work friend, now would I?"

"Urgh... Can't wait... I've always wanted to be suspended in the air thousands of feet above the ground in a literal death trap of a contraption." Sammy eyed the ferris wheel with dubious confidence. How could he trust something so large that was built in so little time, only to be dismantled not too long after?

"Thought yous wanted to go to Coney Island?" Norman teased.

"Coney Island is maintained year long... This is only for a few days!" The music director argued as they moved on to the next game. Abigail gasped loudly before rushing over and pointing.

"Sammy! Sammy look!" Her eyes were alight with pure joy as she pointed at... An insanely large doll. Not just any doll either. It appeared to be some sort of goat, but it had clearly been made up of several other dolls just from noticing the difference in materials from all the different body parts. 

It had bat wings, a dragon's tail, a forked tongue and honestly it looked less like a goat and more like some sort of demon thanks to the mismatched button eyes. It was the ugliest doll Sammy had ever seen.

"He's perfect!" Abigail proclaimed, clearly undeterred by the... Unsettling nature of the doll.

"He's... Certainly something alright." His father would have yelled at him for letting his little sister turn out as some sort of devil worshipping hellion. Sammy could practically hear his gruff voice disowning him now.

"I want him! Seamus needed a big brother to protect him, just like you do for me!" She turned to give him her biggest puppy dog eyes. "Please?"

".... Fine, I'll... I'll try. But these games aren't my forte." He noted the strength testing game. This was going to throw his back, he just knew it. But hey, at least if he got her the doll that'd be her birthday covered next month. Just get another cake and celebrate privately. And in all honesty as horrid as the doll looked, it certainly wasn't as unsettling to him as the unblinking gaze if the grinning demon back at work...

* * *

Sammy didn't get Abby the doll, but then he didn't need to. The moment the hammer hit and his pride was shattered by his apparent lack of strength, Norman stepped up and helped get that massive goat thing for his little sister.

They'd ended up hitting up a few more games until everyone had a prize of their own. Even Sammy himself couldn't help smile fondly at the carved crow figurine currently in his pocket. For luck, Norman had insisted, as corvids were among the smartest creatures in the planet despite their crowing being less than pleasing to the ear.

Now, overlooking the fairgrounds, high up on the ferris wheel, Sammy watched the festivities go on with a calm serenity he rarely got to bask in. His sister was sitting beside him, sleepily clutching her new doll, while her friends talked about school things holding onto their own toys. He found it quaint that Lydia had insisted on a getting a wooden sword, while her older brother requested a rather cute looking cat plush that he was clutching tightly to his chest as if his life depended on it.

Norman was, meanwhile, holding onto his infant son and asking his eldest daughter about medical school. In the other cabin Maggie and the remaining Polk children were attempting communication through Aaron's camera's flash, which Norman would on occasion reply to via flashing a portable flashlight he carried on his person.

This wasn't exactly the most conventional of 'dates' but Sammy wouldn't have it any other way. He was glad he agreed to join the Polks to come to this scam of a festival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've never gone to a Harvest Festival? Nor that I know anything about Coney Island.


	42. Toons: Souper Reunion? Souper Mishap!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boris is temporarily forced to get back into the crime fighting stint to help clean up an unreasonable amount of trouble that's been brewing in Bouillonburg's streets.

"Golly gosh Alice, I really don't know if I got it in me anymore..." The modestly dressed cartoon wolf known as Boris, admitted as he was presented with an offer he didn't ever think possible: **To bring back Souper Boris.** "I mean, my powers aren't exactly permanent. I can't float like you can, and uh, yeah you were always pretty amazing already being an angel and all... I just drank some funky soup."

"Oh nonsense..." Alice held out his discarded Souper outfit, smiling encouragingly as she did so. "Your sense of honor and your wiles are what made you a great superhero! Not just the horribly irradiated soup."

"I'm pretty sure my street smarts never made me shoot lasers from my eyes..." Boris frowned. "Nor uh, lift a moving car..."

"Boris I've seen you lift a car without there being any super soup involved." The angel pointed out. "Although there was a candy bar involved... Come to think of it I've seen you do plenty of impossible feats of strength when food was involved..."

"Fair point, but that's different." He conceded "That's just me being hungry..."

"Yes I do understand dear, but uh..." She paused when an explosion rocked Boris's humble little home. "Please, please, PLEASE reconsider..."

The city had become a bit chaotic since he'd hung up his cape. The influx of supervillains had easily outclassed the arrival of new superheroes, and not even his little Woolly Sidekicks nor Souper Alice had been able to clean the streets of the supposed lesser threats.

Then of course the high crime rate lead to some pretty devastating infighting in the villain community. It turns out the Butcher Gang and the Society for the Shellacking of Souper Boris (yes they kept that ridiculous name) didn't take kindly to having so many idiots encroach on their territory... So they'd started an all out turf war with the city stuck smack dab right in the middle of it all.

Thus Alice's desperate plea for him to go back into the crime fighting scene while the Woolly Triplets attempted to fend off the current troublesome mayhem. To the best of their abilities really.

"I would like to help, really I would Alice... But my doctor said I'm not allowed to eat bacon for a month." He smiled sheepishly. "My cholesterol isn't looking too good..."

"Is there no way I can make you change your mind?" Another explosion sent a toon cat flying into the distance, followed by a crowd running past the house, being chased by a mechanical crocodile. "Things are really out of hand."

"I mean, if you could somehow give me my Souper Boris powers without me having to eat the stuff?" The wolf shrugged.

"Lucky for us I know the right guy for that sort of unbelievable shenanigans... Bendy! Bendy where are you?!" Alice looked around as she called out to the mischievous lesser demon, standing back when said Imp poofed into the mortal realm wearing only a bathing cap and holding a sponge.

He looked around in surprise and, upon seeing them both and remembering his state of undress, yelped as he scrambled to cover himself up.

"Sheesh! Can't a demon take a shower without gettin' an unexpected call?!" He snapped his fingers, a towel appearing out of thin air and wrapping around him. "What do ya want toots? And why are ya wearing a cookin' pot on your head?"

"It's part of the Souper Alice super suit... Bendy do you have any idea of how to give Boris his superpowers back? Without the soup?" Alice asked, dismissing the initial question pertaining her current gettup. "Its kind of an emergency..."

"Well I'll say... And last I checked Boris's superhero business thingy was your typical radioactive mutation cliche. Just throw him in a barrel o' toxic waste. That should do it... Oh hey look it's the Triplets! I ain't seen them since... I donno, time passes weirdly in hell!"

The trio watched the three small sheep toons overpower a newbie villain and proceed to assault them into submission with plungers and hammers. Bendy whistled.

"Savage for three cute little sheep uh?"

"Where do we even find a barrel of toxic waste?" Alice frowned as she tapped her chin in thought.

"Well you could try a power plant, or go behind Greg's in Ducktail Boulevard." Bendy suggested. "That guy's a real freak. Papa Pluto likes to sit at one of the booths and watch his cookin' ruin people's lives."

"I'm not sure I like this plan..." Boris gulped.

"It's either that, or eatin' irradiated bacon soup." Bendy pointed out. "Now if you'll excuse me, I got a nice hot shower to return to."

And with that, the little grinning Imp vanished. Leaving the wolf and the angel to their half-baked plan.

Seeing no other options, they decided to follow Bendy's advice against their better judgement. What could possibly go wrong right?

* * *

"Remind me again why we're helping these troublesome do-gooders, when we could instead disintegrate them and claim the city for ourselves?" Cameraman asked Miss Twisted as he grabbed as many of his equipment as he could fit in his arms.

The demoness shrugged before raising three fingers. She began listing off of them.

"Well they got rid of those schmucks who thought they were real bonafide villains, thus decreasing the competition exponentially." She began. "Then the little trio of sheep threatened us with severe painful harm, which Brute thought was really super cute, which it was... And can you really deny the big guy that?"

Both looked over at the burly wolf who was currently on the floor cooing at the three sheep currently biting his ears and trying to intimidate him into submission.

"Aww..."

"I know right?" She chuckled. "Finally... That angel is super hot and you'd help a fellow villain out, wouldn't you?"

"So in essence, I'm playing wingman by fixing the horrendous mutations that came from Souper Boris deciding to bathe in toxic waste?" Cameraman deadpanned.

"Yep~"

"What a grand and glamorous life I'm living..." He sighed, clearly exasperated. "My father was right, I should have just been a street lamp instead..."

"Love you too Cammy~" the demoness cackled "Now let's go decrease the number of heads and limbs on that wolf. The staring and wiggling is really starting to freak me out...Brute be careful with your new buddies, they're only little!"

"Me like soft cute sheepies!" The large brutish wolf ignored the kicking and biting, joyfully holding the Woolly Triplets as if they were little fragile china dolls.

After this, Boris was definitely never trying this hero business stuff ever again... Or maybe he should rectify what he'd said in the past. Bendy's ideas really were the worst!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and simple, but still charming enough to play out like an actual cartoon short.


	43. Down in the Cellar (Bad Ending AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joey Drew couldn't ever take 'No' for an answer, much less when it came from the object of his ill-fated obcession.

When brought into the world children were never inherently cruel. They were curious and blunt, which often resulted in uncomfortable situations for those they interacted with, but overall younglings were empathetic at heart until reshaped and redefined into something otherwise.

The world was a terrible influence after all, and it could marr even the purest of things.

There were exceptions to this rule however… 

Joey Drew had certainly been a curious kid. Unabashedly blunt too, with how often his innocent words cut deep into both his parents and peers.

But not once did he empathise enough with others to be considered a kind child.

If anything, most others his age had steered clear from his company, finding the mellow kid with the great big toothy smile to be unsettling on an instinctive level. Children were, after all, capable of sensing evil. Even in its stages of infancy.

So imagine everyone's surprise (Joey's included) when Henry Stein decided to befriend the town's most infamous little black sheep.

Kind bleeding heart that he was, Henry had thought it unfair that others would judge another as strongly as they judged Joey, so he'd taken it upon himself to make the kid next door's life a little less lonesome. 

Give him what he surely needed: A good and caring friend.

Needless to say, he regretted that decision more than anything in the world...

It hadn't always been so bad. Once Joey had actually been a friend to him, and cared enough to look after Henry when he'd most needed.

Now however? Now Henry could barely recognize the monster behind that unnerving grin... 

The burning selfish desires in those sapphire blues, hidden behind an half-lidded expression that was reserved to feign a serene and caring persona…

As charming and handsome as Joey looked (because he'd always been unnaturally pretty, even when going through the awkward stages of puberty), Henry couldn't help find his apathetic and selfish nature abominably hideous.

Especially now as he brought him the results of yet another failed experiment.

"I'm getting closer dear friend." He held the snapping, snarling little beast at arm's length, this failed mockery of Edgar barely looking like the adorable cartoon spider he was meant to be. "Soon I'll be able to make you perfect, and then we'll be back together as the dynamic duo we always were..."

Henry shuddered at the thought, tightly curling in on himself as he watched Joey end the poor creature's miserable existence. His bowl where his meals were served clattering loudly, as the inky heart of the slain critter was tossed onto it with precision. A mimicry of flesh thumping against the metal with a wet splat.

He fought back the urge to cry as he felt his mouth water.

"Eat up my loyal wolf… We can't be wasteful." Joey's cruel smile almost ruined his appetite. Almost. "Don't worry, this wasn't anyone you knew…"

With that said, Joey left him to greedily consume the offering.

Looking in the bowl's reflective surface once he'd licked it clean, Henry found that he could barely recognize himself anymore.

His stretched out face progressively becoming less and less humanoid as he was fed the experimental failures of Joey's horrid machine, and his pale hair having long since turned black and begun to spread.

He looked like what one would envision Boris the Wolf to look like in some lovecraftian fever dream. Dressed in ill-fitting ripped clothing, and barely able to balance a pair of cracked glasses on the bridge of his elongated nose.

An inhuman beast that fed off of the misfortune of others, losing his humanity as time passed on by.

He wondered if he'd forget himself eventually. If he'd forget that the devil in disguise that was Joey Drew was to blame for his malformations.

If one day he'd actually grow to love his captor in the same manner that Stolkholm syndrome victims tended to do, once brainwashed into submission by their abusers?

Another shudder forced a garbled whimper out of his deformed face.

To whatever god that could hear his broken pleas, he sure hoped not.

Henry didn't want to give Joey what he wanted. 

Not when that monster of a man had taken him away from his family to keep as some sort of freak show pet.

Playing some sick version of house with the "puppy" he sustained on a cannibalistic diet. Disgusting.

Curling up, Henry cried himself to sleep. Thinking of his wife and children.

Missing them terribly while locked up in the bowels of Joey's demented studio.

* * *

The Ink Demon wasn't bad company, Henry had found. It seemed to understand his pain on a level no other creature did, offering him what little compassion it could whenever Joey dropped by with more "food".

It feared and loathed that devil of a man just as much as Henry did, and it knew to be kind despite never once being treated with the same sort of respect.

The one positive of this odd kinship between the two, was that Joey seemed pleased by them forming the sort of bond Bendy and Boris had. Thus never getting in between their interactions.

"One day soon, it'll all be just as I envisioned." He'd purr as he pinned the bound inky wolf to the ground, touching Henry in a way that made him want to gag, and rip the rat bastard's throat out with his horrific set of doggish teeth. "Just a little more and you'll be perfect."

He didn't want to be perfect.

All Henry wanted was to kill Joey Drew and go home.

"But first, I have a surprise for you." A surprise that came right after this twisted display of "affection". This gross invasion of the abominable wolf's personal bubble.

Joey presented him with an absolutely Perfect Boris. 

Overalls, pie cut eyes, soft velvety fuzz and all… no signs of dripping or asymmetrical proportions.

The terror in those eyes however… it was all too human.

"I told you I'd find a way to reach perfection. Once I've finished tweaking the process you'll be just as perfect as him… Maybe more." Joey purred. "I miss your voice after all, dearest friend. Until then I give you this fearful pup to do with as you wish."

Upon his tormentor's departure, the cartoon wolf scrambled away from Henry. Shaking like a leaf and whining pitifully.

A child, Joey had converted a child…

Hell hath no fury like the righteous rage of a scorned father.

That bastard would pay for all he'd done!

But first, the large and deformed beast that was Henry Stein carefully scooted over to the shaking Boris clone and comforted him as best he could.

He'd protect this poor pup, no matter what.

The Ink Demon seemed to be in favour of extending that same grace, although it did still go for the kill when the less than agreeable ink monsters came around looking for trouble.

* * *

Buddy's transformation had certainly enraged him when Joey presented the poor boy to him. Sammy's and Norman's fates however were the last straw to break the camel's back.

Most of the people that worked at the studio were strangers to Henry, but the young musician and the oddball projectionist had been friends to him.

With every stranger's heart he consumed, the large beast of a wolf grew more and more restless. The revulsion he felt when looking upon Joey growing into an all consuming desire to violently murder his captor.

When a faceless ink creature wearing only suspenders and a Bendy mask came in one day to bring him his meal however…

"My lord wishes me to feed you, oh Great Lupine... Abyssal Hunger of the Ink's Abyss…" The body shape wasn't one he recognized. The slight arch to the creature's legs a bit strange to look at, and the four fingered hands an indication that something strange had definitely come to pass in this poor madman's transition into his current state. But that voice…

"Shhh...Shhaaammiieeee…?" His voice had returned as a dissonant mess, one that was not fit for a gross mockery of a muzzle like his own.

"Is… Is that my name, oh Hungry One?" There was both fear and hope in his voice. That in itself made something twinge painfully in Henry's chest. "I… Yes, yes that is my name isn't it? Sammy… I… oh thank you kindly, Benevolent Wolf. Please, feast upon your meal. I have worked hard to acquire it in the name of our Lord, your most wonderous companion."

What had Joey done to Sammy Lawrence, the proud music director that had more than half the mind this mindless drone had? Good heavens, what had he done that completely broke the poor kid?!

Rather than voice his horror, Henry did as he was told. After all the more he ate, the more his gluttonous appetite grew… as did this horrid body he was stuck with.

Abyssal hunger indeed…

He forgot what shame tasted like, but not mercy.

As selfish as it may be, he did request one thing.

"It is as you wish, oh Hungry One… I shall protect all pups that enter my lair." The Prophet bowed once, twice and then trice as he took Buddy by the hand. "Another horror skulks in the darkness, wearing an Angel's face. She hunts wolves, for fun. I shall show them your mercy."

He trusted that Sammy would keep his word. He was as stubborn as they could get, after all, and did not back off from a challenge very easily.

Henry would miss Buddy's company though.

That particular encounter was bad on a moral level, but it did turn out alright in the end. When the Projectionist was presented to him as a play thing however, Henry had begun to crack. No one deserves such a horrible fate as to carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Norman had once carried a world of unimaginable knowledge on his back. 

Now he only had the painful weight of a projector on his neck, and the volatile temper of a mindless beast.

The deformed wolf had done his best to gain the creature's trust, but it feared being attacked far too much to let a nearly 20 foot inky monstrosity near itself.

Self preservation hadn't completely left the Projectionist it seemed.

He'd let it go, hoping doing so would be a sign of good will on its own.

And then when he'd been once again left alone, Henry continued to stew in his anger. Talked himself into showing a rarer more violent side on Joey's next visit.

Even tried to fight back against him the next when he tried to touch him.

This was a losing battle however… After all, Joey Drew couldn't ever take 'No' for an answer, much less when it came from the object of his ill-fated obsessions.

Henry Stein just so happened to be his biggest obsession. Even as this horrifically imperfect monster that only an equally horrific demon could ever hope to understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was dark...


	44. Love Potion, Side Effects may Include a Guilty Conscience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of Allison's more peculiar interests turns out better than she expected, if only because of a slight mistake.

If questioned on the subject, Allison wouldn't exactly call herself a witch. She had an interest in witchcraft, sure, but she herself was not an expert nor a professional on the arts of ancient beldams and shamans.

She was, however, the owner of a vast and ever growing collection of tomes that were the aglommoration of such olden knowledge.

Of these powerful tomes came the biggest of her fixations: **Potion brewing** , more specifically the refinement of elixirs.

It was amazing what a few select ingredients could produce if you were to extract or prepare them in a certain way. From all natural remedies to combat the effects of illness, to powerful poisons and even blends that could condition the mind to do certain things.

It was an art that could be used to do as much good as it could do evil, and Allison knew a few select witches of the past had indeed done evil when others scorned them so. To the detriment of those that had been pure in their intentions, as were many of the victims of the Salem Witch Trials.

But Allison wasn't looking to do much with her knowledge besides sate her curiosity and test a few interesting blends. Most went into helping those around her anonymously... 

A few drops in a cup of coffee and suddenly Jack's bad cough was gone. A whiff of her perfume, and Sammy was a lot calmer than he'd been a minute or so ago. Even a few delicious homemade cupcakes got everyone into a creative rut that kept Joey off their backs.

She was benevolent in her actions... But... There was one particular blend she wanted to try for more selfish reasons. A love potion of a sort, composed of natural aphrodisiacs and calming herbs.

One she hoped to try on the object of her affections, a man that had such an impeccable work ethic that she doubted he even knew she even existed (which was odd as most men often buzzed around her like bees to a flower, because of her attractive features). It frustrated her to no end that Thomas Connor was a difficult person to understand, or to get close to.

Her previous experiences with past boyfriends had always been quite linear, so the mysterious engineer being so hard to read was baffling. No man nor any woman should be a puzzle so hard to figure out, and her lack of progress on this matter only made her feel more attracted towards him.

So here she was, trying to find Mr. Connor's coffee mug, ready to slip him an all natural drug that would definitely turn his gaze towards her... You know, like some degenerate wench...

"Oh you've sunk low Al... You've sunk very low." She murmured to herself as she looked through the shared cupboard. There was a myriad of different mugs that were unique so as to distinguish them from someone else's property. A lot of people in the studio were against sharing their cups after all, thus this fun little measure that definitely wasn't making it hard for her right now.

She knew the mug with brightly colored polkadots was Norman's, as it was a silly play on his last name (one Mel had started as a means to poke fun at him). She also knew the white one with intricate depictions of songbirds and forget-me-nots was Sammy's (a gift to him from his sister apparently), and that the bright green one with stocky writing on it was Shawn's (Mr. Flynn was, after all, fond of yelling 'Top o' the Morning to ya' to everyone at the earliest hours of the morning).

But, for the life of her, she couldn't find a mug that she thought might fit Thomas's personality at all... They were all varying degrees of either pretty or silly and none really screamed his name. Not until she squinted and found one that was bland enough to be a no-nonsense GENT employee's pick.

A simple black mug with absolutely nothing extraordinary about it, sitting besides a white mug with paw prints on it (likely Wally's as he had a fondness for dogs).

Taking that bland old mug, she proceeded with her plan.

* * *

By 9 AM sharp, Allison was a bundle of nerves. She'd prepared Thomas's coffee separately before making everyone else their own mugs to avoid suspicion. Then she'd set out a plate of cupcakes (some vanilla, some chocolate) to make it seem like an innocent little gesture rather than the shameful and depraved act that it actually was, and greeted everyone on her way out of the break room.

Morale was great that morning, but so was her increasing guilt... She shouldn't be meddling with what others felt, especially not trying to bewitch her crush into liking her for a brief moment. Yet here she was, hoping to bump into a drugged up Thomas Connor and get him to praise her in some form.

Her need for validation was... Rotten. She hated it, she hated that she'd gone to these lengths just to feel like someone genuinely cared for her rather than her good looks.

So when she did find her crush at last, she didn't feel so good about the plan anymore.

"Allison could I maybe speak to you for a second?" The gruff voice of Thomas Connor wasn't particularly loud, at least not louder than many of the other employees in the music department, so she jumped slightly when he approached her quietly during her break from recording.

"I... Yes certainly." Her stomach felt like it was doing flips as she followed the taller man, considering her options here. She could lightly reject any advances he tried to make in his state of unknowing inebriation, admit she may have slipped something in his coffee, or even straight up lie and say there was weed in the cupcakes... But, instead of doing anything, she resigned herself to the fact the next words out of his mouth weren't going to be genuine.

"I wanted to thank you." Thomas began as they'd gotten out into a quieter hall with little to no movement. "For always trying to brighten things up a little here at the studio. Drew's been a right pain in the ass, and it really sets off a chain... But here you are, getting up bright and early to bake cupcakes and brew everyone a cup of coffee, being the most genuine and selfless person at this damn madhouse..."

The guilt was excruciating, and Allison felt herself blush slightly as her eyes began to sting. He likely thought it was humility on her part.

"Hey, no need for that. Just stating the facts Miss Pendle..." He smiled, really smiled, and it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Thomas Connor had this shy little smile that started at the corner of his mouth and just barely exposed his front teeth a bit. "I was wondering... If maybe I could pay you back. With uh... With lunch?"

"I..."

"I understand if you're busy, it's just... I'd just like to be able to repay your kindness in kind. Lunch for an impromptu breakfast seems fair... And it's well within our schedules I hope..." He added. She couldn't bring herself to decline even if she knew she should.

"It... It sounds good to me. Uh... Wednesday?" She shyly suggested.

"Wednesday." He nodded in agreement. "Best we both go back to work now, before Lawrence has a fit..."

"Yeah... Thank you Thomas." She smiled sadly, watching him as he nodded her way. Her smile vanished once she noticed him bring a mug up to his lips. A white mug with paw prints on it.

Once he took a sip from his coffee he went on his way, leaving Allison in a confused state. On one hand, her crush had genuinely just asked her out and that was amazing! On the other... **Who's coffee mug was it that she had drugged then?**

* * *

Henry groaned as he hung up his phone for the 20th time that day. Whoever the hell was calling his landline only to breathe heavily into the speaker as he questioned them, was really starting to aggravate him.

Damn kids and their stupid pranking antics... He had half a mind to call the cops!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allison's name sakes might not be so proud of this slight mishap, and Henry has a pretty bad day in general.


	45. Toons: Angel among Sinners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance is a lot harder than her radio dramas make it out to be, but Miss Twisted won't be deterred from wooing the girl of her dreams. Lucky for her, she has some outside intervention.

It was a little like how one of her dramas began. Though, hard as nails, femme fatale goes into a seedy bar with her buds to scope out the local birds. The three are losing the flirting battle because none of the dames think they're classy enough to get with them for a one night hookup, and then as if by miraculous coincidence an angel steps out into the stage. Literally.

Miss Twisted liked the concept behind a romantic relationship. It drove her absolutely giddy with delight when she kicked back to listen to her afternoon radio soaps. She was just never lucky enough to find the sort of gal that'd fly with her.

Sure, hooking up for some hanky panky filled night was fun and all, but it lacked the emotional depth of a romantic partner to get all sweet with and do all of those cute couple things she saw the folks of Bouillonburg doing to woo their significant others.

Brute and Cameraman were good company sure, but unless they started going around in drag she doubted she'd find either attractive. Also they were more like her brothers so, ew, no... And honestly the idea of Cam in a dress was gag worthy. Brute might make it work, he had the badonkadonks to fill the front of a dress very nicely.

Shaking her head, Missy winced.

"Shoulda started with a few virgins rather than straight up vodka..." She contemplated as she pushed away her last glass.

"Lightweight." Cam teased as he chugged straight out of a whiskey bottle... Somehow. She had no idea how he could drink without a mouth and watching him did little to provide an answer. "Bar's full of snobby wenches tonight. Not even a lady of my caliber in sight..."

"They host ugly nights on Thursdays." She stuck her tongue out at him and yelped when he pulled her stool back, nearly causing her to fall.

"It is Thursday. And just because you 'fleshies' don't think us object toons are pleasing to the eye, doesn't mean we're not beautiful." He seemed cross. "Don't need my own friends being a bunch of obnoxious racists..."

"You know I don't really mean it, you square." She signalled the barman for another round. "You're cute honestly, just not my type."

"Cute? I'm very handsome thank you very much! Back in my home town everyone thought I was quite the catch!" He huffed proudly before looking around. "Not much of your type around either... The ladies here only have eyes for the men."

"And the men only have eyes for the ladies. Poor Bubu, been a while since he's had some fun..." She glanced at the large burly wolf who was collecting olives from the martini glasses he'd been drinking. He looked resigned to a night of zero bedroom fun.

"Hasn't it been for all of us?" He downed the rest of his bottle and covered his faceplate as he belched. "Pardon me."

"You burp like a little girl." The demoness teased again as she picked up her new glass and turned to face the stage. The previous act had finally come to an end, and she was curious to see who else had signed up to entertain the local drunkards.

That's when she came into the stage... The most dazzling vision Miss Twisted did ever lay eyes upon. A beautiful curvy hourglass figure accentuated by a tight black dress, a round heart shaped face that fit plump lips and large doe-like soulfull eyes, ebony locks that framed her face nicely, a pair of stubby curved horns upon her head, and a brilliant halo that cast her in an ethereal glow...

Miss Twisted felt cupid's arrow pierce her heart as this wonderfully beau walked towards the microphone, an angel among sinners.

"Wow mama..." Color flooded her already flushed cheeks as the act began. Eyes glued on sensually swaying hips and kissable lips moving to form syllables... Oh and that voice! That splendurous voice! Like a siren's song to her ears.

Cameraman squinted as he turned to look.

"That little lady looks familiar..." He hummed.

"She's gorgeous..." Missy giggled as she practically drooled watching the angel on the stage. Cameraman looked at his friend and sighed, before turning to look at Brute who was also watching the little demoness with an inquisitive look. The object-headed toon shook his head and simply ordered another bottle. It took a lot to get him drunk, and alcohol was honestly such weak stuff... He sure wished more establishments in Bouillonburg served his kind of drinks.

The wolf shrugged his shoulders and asked for his own refill. Best not get in the way of his female friend's thirsting.

* * *

The angel was quite the gal indeed. And, it turns out, a close friend of Missy's old pal! Why, the naughty little Imp was even at the bar to watch his lady friend do her magic on this deplorable crowd of drunkards and bastards. That, the demoness found out when a pained yelp came from her right.

She glanced down and grinned.

"Trying to pickpocket Cameraman doesn't work too good, that belt of his is booby trapped~" she giggled menacingly as she stared down at none other than Bendy. Papa Pluto's most favourite little troublemaker.

"Oh, hey Misty. Didn't see ya there..." The little imp shook off the shock he'd just received, glancing up at the glare of the object-headed toon's lens. "This uh... This your friend?"

"Yep."

"Ah... He can keep his wallet then. Any more buds o' yours around?" He grinned sheepishly. They both pointed at Brute who was definitely listening in, as he suddenly noticed the absence of weight on his back pocket. The burly wolf growled at the imp, smirking when he quickly tossed him his wallet back.

"Sheesh... What a bruiser." Bendy turned to look back at Miss Twisted. "So what brings ya to these parts of our lovely little city?"

"Lust." Missy replied. "Gotta scratch that itch sometimes... Been pretty unlucky on that front tho."

"Yeah, the birds here ain't bein' easy... Poor Alice there is as cute as a button, and so far no one went and tried to woo her other than a bunch of slobberin' wolves... Err, not actual wolves mind ya. Just wolf-whistlers." He corrected himself, glancing at Brute very briefly.

"A friend of yours?" Missy asked.

"Yep! The dame on the stage, movin' her butt like there's no tomorrow. Got pipes made o' gold that one." He pointed to the angel, which made Missy gawk.

"You're friends with that gal?!" She stared at the object of her affections, then at the tiny round imp like she couldn't believe his words.

"Yeah we are pretty tight." He grinned wider. "Been tryin' to teach her to loosen up, Boris and I. That's my other bud... He's somewhere around here."

Cameraman and Brute both lost interest in the conversation and went back to drinking. They seemed to be ready to call it quits soon since they weren't going to get any action tonight.

"Bringing an angel to a dump like this sure seems like the way to loosen up..." The demoness remarked sarcastically.

"Hey she's havin' fun, ain't she?" Bendy defended as he motioned to Alice who did seem like she was enjoying herself. "And not many other bars in this town have birds on birds and brutes on brutes... Best place for her to meet a gal that'll want to have some fun with her."

"Oooh..." The demoness's arms coiled tightly with merriment as she took in those words. Available and her type? Lucky lucky day! "I'm down to mingle with your gal pal, if you know what I mean... She seems like more than a one night splendor."

"Hey hey hey!" Bendy hopped onto the stool to the left of her. "My gal Alice ain't some piece o' eye candy you get to slobber on and discard. She's like, a super fine wine. Good with age, refined, quality."

".... Bendz, I just said I wanted more than just some fun. I'm looking for a partner, not just a patty cake one night stand."

"Oh... Hm, still how do I know ya won't corrupt my pal? That's my job!" The imp crossed his arms, brow creased slightly.

"Because she's perfect! Duh?" She rolled her eyes. "I want a girl that I can sweep off her feet and whisper sweet nothings into her ear."

"Uh-huh... And?" Bendy was all ears it seemed, so she was definitely going to sell it. Brute and Cameraman glanced back with renewed interest. This ought to be good entertainment.

"If I dated her, I can guarantee your gal Alice would wake up knowing I'd be there to make her happy. To shower her in love, affection, and fantastic gifts. The next more grand than the very last one..." She carried on. "I'd take her to see the world, sail the seven seas on a cruise ship, traverse the skies in a hot hair balloon, ride across the country side on horseback, and scale the tallest mountains so she could see the stars and awe inspiring views..."

Bendy snickered slightly and Cameraman began to tap her on the shoulder. She swatted his hand away.

"Tell me more of how you'd go about wooing Alice." Bendy smirked.

"After all the grand adventures, I'd go back to do the small things. Wake up besides her, watching her rest before I roused her with more sweet nothings. I'd bring her breakfast in bed, lovingly prepared to her tastes. I'd massage her ankles after they ached from dancing to her heart's delight. I'd make her feel like the most special girl in the whole entire world if just so I could drink in her smile, hear her sweet voice call my name..."

"Aww, Bendy you didn't tell me your friend was so sweet..."

Miss Twisted clamped her mouth shut as she turned to stare at the reason Cameraman was trying to get her attention. The reason why Bendy looked so amused by her gushing... Why that little no good devil...

"I ah..." Face flushed more from embarrassment than the alcohol she'd drank, Missy did not know how to salvage this mess she'd just made, proclaiming an imagined future of romance with the angel that was standing there, smiling at her besides an awfully familiar looking gangly wolf.

"So... Any plans for when you get married?" Cameraman asked. "Need a wedding photographer?"

"Cam, so help me Pluto I will end you..." She hissed, hiding her face in her hands.

"Cameraman try to warn Missy that pretty angel coming over." Brute pointed out, laughing heartily at her misfortune.

"Eheheh! Well Alice, am I or am I not the greatest wingman in history?" Bendy grinned mischievously at his two pals.

"You uh... You didn't need to embarrass this poor lady, Bendy..." The wolf winced in sympathy, despite seeming nervous when looking at the trio. He especially avoided the object-headed toon's scrutiny, messing with the straps of his overalls when the other began to murmur about familiar looking faces.

"Still... All those things you said miss..." Alice smiled "They were very nice. I haven't really found that many other ladies who wanted to actually date. People these days are all about quick thrilling hookups rather than old school romance."

"Yeah, it's a real shame ain't it?" Missy gulped down her shame, smiling back at the beautiful angel. "I mean, just look at you! You deserve all that I said, and more! Who would just discard you like chewed up gum? A madwoman that's who!"

"Such a charmer... I like it." Alice giggled. "I think... I think I'd like to get to know you. I'm Alice. Alice Angel."

"Miss Twisted. I'd definitely like to get to know you."

Cameraman sighed.

"How sweet... At least one of us got something out of this dang bar..."

"Brute got many olives." The large wolf pointed out. Everyone stared at the little bag he'd filled with olives. That was... That sure was a lot.

"That you did big fella... That you did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a demoness falls head over heels for an angel at first sight, a little imp has some fun being a wingman, a camera is exasperated by his friend's impulsive nature, and two wolves just chill.


	46. A Curse Well Placed (100 Deeds for Sammy Lawrence AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman's ancient roots call for punishment when Sammy's temper gets the better of him and he crosses a line.

There was something special to be said about Sammy Lawrence's particular brand of foul temper… Norman found it to be just as entertaining as it was vile. 

The sort of spectacle that left him in appreciative awe as he watched it escalate and unfold, into this acidic burn that distorted the mood around it. Like a perfectly fine roll of film left under the merciless overexposure of light, until all left to see was nothing but a mere pale stain contrasting with the dark background.

He appreciated the grand scale of it all, because it was so magnificently baffling how one singular man could carry so much anger compacted in a body so thin.

Surely the pressure should snap him in twain? Or burst whatever overworked blood vessels were keeping that overcooked brain alive?

It was a mystery to him, and that honestly made it something of splendorous beauty to a curious man of Norman's caliber. A puzzle he couldn't crack, which was a rarity in itself!

What wasn't so beautiful, however, was how Sammy directed this all consuming rage… That being that, he couldn't direct or control it at all...

It boiled over and splashed out in swelling waves, burning the world around the curly haired blond with a tremendous heat. A conflagration of such epic proportions that it consumed those around the music director, leaving broken spirits and a dark despair at getting the brunt of such a vocally aggressive man's temper.

And right now the one under such extreme heat was the poor new hire who hadn't meant to evoke the embers of the furious musician's ire. Not that it was a hard thing to achieve, not when it came to Sammy.

Those words… 

Those sulfur and venom laced words… They made Norman's own blood boil and his roots call out for justice of a sort. The similarly untamed part of him, so primal and raw in ways befitting of ancient beings beyond the imagination of man… a part of him that awoke in the presence of tremendous disrespect that needed to be sorted in a way most unnatural.

A lesson was to be learnt here, and it was one the projectionist had postponed for far too long, with just how many he'd let Sammy bully into submission…

But not now, not when he was bearing witness to the sheer amount of fear Daniel Lewek was radiating under the head of the department's scrutiny… Yes, now was time to act and break out his old Nanna's teachings. Ancient and impartial things that they were.

She would have wrinkled her nose in displeasure if she knew what Norman had planned, but he was sure she'd understand how much a change of perspective was needed in the case of dear old Sammy Lawrence.

Descending the stairs with a purpose in his steps, Norman said nothing as he grabbed the shorter blond by the back of his suspenders ( _much to both Sammy's and Buddy's surprise_ ) and kept on walking towards the music director's office.

He ignored the shouted protests and the flailing of limbs, walking straight into Sammy's lair and locking it behind him.

Then he unceremoniously dropped the blond on his ass and stared down at him, very much like a disappointed parent staring at their naughty child. Only this wasn't something like a little kid getting caught stealing from the cookie jar.

"What the hell was that, Polk?!" Sammy demanded once he got back up onto his feet. His posture shaking with both anger and disbelief at his audacity to get in between him and his target.

"I donno… Yous tell me Sammy." He kept his voice leveled, despite his own anger at such a shameful display. "T'hell yous goin' 'bout yellin' up a storm like that? Buddy ain't done yous no harm."

"No harm? No harm?!" He had a good view of Sammy's upper gums now, his lips pulled back in an ugly grimace like a dog baring its teeth. "That good for nothing incompetent little worm has been nothing if not a thorn in my side since Joey hired him! Kid can't even get Bendy right, and already I have to compose some half-assed song about the far west that Joey won't stop nit-picking because he went and decided to draw the little grinning bastard's devil on a horse! And have you heard Joey?!"

Sammy let out a loud frustrated exhale through his teeth as he kicked his own chair out of the way. The loud clatter was enough to scatter the few folk still in the music department. Fleeing to escape the eye of the storm.

"Going on, and on, and on about what makes that nobody special! Like he's some… I donno, some surrogate Henry!" Sammy laughed angrily. "As if! Henry could keep Joey in his place. That brat can't even do his job right, and trusts blindly! Enables the bastard!"

"Hey now, yous is going far Sammy Lawrence. Too far." Norman found himself glaring. "Usin' Henry t'criticize Buddy is goin' lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut."

"Tell _that_ to Joey then! Mr. Drew sure seems to think the kid has something only Henry did, and just watching him stare at the kid with that smile of his… it _sickens_ me. More than that scrawny little _rat_ does, getting in the way..."

Without warning Norman's hand closed around the blond's right forearm and twisted it back, startling the grappled man and making him pause when he was brought forward to gaze into the burrowing glare of the projectionist's furious gaze.

"Yous take that back right now Lawrence." This was the last chance he had to get his act right, correct that white southern nonsense his old pa had implanted in his brain. "Or me n' you are gonna mix in a real bad way…"

Of course as expected, the answer was clear. Just from the enraged look in those hazel eyes that belonged to a man that took pleasure in acting out of spite towards anyone that tried to push back against the barrier that was Sammy's stubborn anger.

"Bite me." The blond sneered.

That's all the justification he needed to call upon what his Nanna had taught him long ago. Damn shame, these lessons tended to take a while to learn. But it wasn't anything Sammy didn't deserve if he was so adamant to behave like a goddamn animal.

"I see… well then Mr. Lawrence, don't say I didn't go n' warn you…" the older projectionist threw the music director on the floor and moved over to the blinds. He closed them and then stared back at the confused man currently pulling himself back up. Already the pull of magic was urging him to act without thought, but Norman had at least enough sense not to give in to it quite yet. Things like these needed planning. "If yous likes to flap your gums and caw up a vile n' violent storm like that, then I know just what sorta new lease on life yous need."

"The hell are you on about now?!" Sammy seemed uncertain. Obviously he was expecting a beating, not some poetic crap that made little sense to him. He'd gotten into plenty of scraps before, Norman knew, so the kid was ready to defend himself. But this? Oh it'd be brutal alright, but not inherently painful. More, psychologically tormenting for a few brief moments, then nothing. 

As if he'd always been whatever form Norman deemed appropriate for this punishment.

"Your heart is a thumpin' gizzard, n' I'm tired of yous sendin' others cryin' for no reason other than yous got your knickers in a knot." He focused solely on the blond, measuring him. Getting a feel for what he had to work with. Ugly attitude or not, he'd make a fine creature in whatever form he took. His soul was such a radiant thing. A shame to waste on such resentfulness. "Hm… a gizzard… That ain't a bad idea."

Breaking the distance between the two Norman couldn't help smirk as he envisioned it in his mind's eye.

Just a few threads to pull and rearrange. Swap hair for feathers, hollow out the bones, decrease the size, fuse that hook of a nose with the mouth…

The flow of life composing this masterful composer was so easy to understand and reshape. Absurdly so. 

It was an exhilarating prospect that was making him feel overly eager to act the role of sculptor creating his magnificent sculpture. He was losing himself to the fouler side of his nature. A nasty lustful need to play god.

"Norman what are you doing…?" Sammy's back met the wall and he looked almost… Scared. The glint in those mismatched eyes studying him so carefully, was setting off his fight or flight instincts. Begging him to find a way out. And the projectionist's uncontrollable urges to change his destiny drank that fear and thrived on it.

"Not a bad idea at all."

And that was that. The last thing holding him back. Norman pulled at the seams and Sammy came apart in one simple tug like a ball of yarn.

Putting it all back in a new order? Now that took a little longer… But oh, did Norman relish on it. The ancient magic in his veins screaming for him to do unimaginable things. Reach deep within and reveal his full potential. The extent of his raw power!

And then the feeling of growing terror brought the projectionist back to his senses. He cursed himself, knowing he'd nearly gotten lost in the rush, a terrible rookie's mistake.

Nanna always warned him that the arts beckoned you to be cruel, to be callously wicked. To have such a hold of life...it could corrupt your heart and soul very easily, and now he could understand her concerns.

He had to remember that this was ultimately to teach Sammy to value others, rather than think himself above them.

Force him into the shoes of something he considered vermin and then let him seek only guidance from the one he'd mercilessly verbally assaulted.

Learn to appreciate rather than take his untamed rage out on his coworkers. Perhaps acquire some control over that temper of his.

With this in mind, the older man carefully put the blond back together as an unnaturally beautiful crow.

Caramel in color, with pale beak and talons, and soulful hazel eyes.

A tiny thing that fit in his hands, that looked up with a terrified confused look.

A little crow that cawed, and flapped limbs it had no idea how to control.

Norman felt guilty for causing such distress, caressed the shaking critter with gentle fingers and hushing it as best he could as burning shame swelled deep in his gut.

The crow, this new form that Sammy now took, bit at his fingers and cried louder.

He still comforted him with bleeding fingers despite it being a futile gesture right now.

"I'm sorry… I shouldn't have been so careless with this process…" he whispered comfortingly "But yous need to learn Sammy...Until 100 good deeds you've achieved, that guilty heart o'yours won't be redeemed. And let no man or woman but the one yous so deeply wronged, and the one that watches over yous, be able to hear a word yous say."

"What the hell did you do to me?! What did you do, you freak?!" The caws turned to fearful words and if crows could cry the tiny caramel colored thing in his grasp would be bawling his eyes out in fright.

Nothing more to say, Norman simply pulled the nearest vent grate out and let the confused man trapped within a corvid's body loose in the studio.

"Nanna forgive me, I nearly went and did somethin' worse than what I had in mind… but Sammy does need this in the end." The projectionist prayed to God and his dear guardian angel that nothing bad would come of his need to interfere in the affairs of man.

The magic in him craved curses, and the honor he'd been taught craved moral lessons. This was one that he hoped was well placed, and that led to a brand new perspective being embraced.

If not, he might have just doomed a man to live the remainder of his life as an impossibly intelligent crow.

A terrible fate no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 Deeds for Sammy Lawrence is an AU I recently thought up based on an old show I used to watch as a kid, and that I discussed on my tumblr.
> 
> You can find out more info about it here: https://mwolf0epsilon.tumblr.com/post/632067627660050432/because-ive-had-sammy-lawrence-magical-curses
> 
> And I've drawn for it as well: https://mwolf0epsilon.tumblr.com/post/632230412260966400/unhand-me-you-brute


	47. Toons: In Which Miss Twisted Messes Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight mistake in her schedule gives Miss Twisted a taste of trouble in paradise.

It wasn't often that the stars aligned for the sort of mischief that they were getting up to, but oh if the Society didn't enjoy it all the more when they got the chance to show up the Butcher Gang in a nice game of robbing the bank blind!

They'd used the troublesome trio of dopes as their distraction, breaking into the vault while they attempted their stick-up. Filled their bags and pockets with as much cash as possible, and then things really got interesting. You see, Charley wasn't one to share a heist, and neither was Miss Twisted. The glory would fall upon the most ruthless criminals, and that prestigious title was going to which ever of the gangs could get away with the plundered riches.

The battle was on.

"Getting tired are we?!" Missy cackled as she stared down the end of her opponent's retreating and swinging switchblade, her own dagger parrying blows aimed at her long springy arms. "What's the matter Charley boyo? Too old to tango with a dame?"

"In your dreams, princess!" He flashed her an ugly toothy grimace. "I ain't no pirate, but I can pull my weight in a swordfight. This is just the warm up!"

"Then warm up faster Charles, because the ladies don't like cold feet!" She flashed her own sharp grin at him.

"I'll remember that if I ever meet a lady then." He smirked.

"Why I oughta..." She swung her blade faster, trying to get him off balance. Behind her she could hear the struggles as Cameraman wrestled for control of their getaway vehicle from the meddling Barley, while the Brute was defending their spoils from the itsy bitsy Edgar who was trying to lasso a few bags out of his reach.

One lucky swing caught the side of Charley's blade and sent it flying from his grasp, leaving him weaponless and at the edge of the truck's open back.

"My, my... Seems like Lady Luck has a new favourite." Missy chuckled "And it ain't the leprechaun, it seems."

"Keep yappin' girly, even if you win this fight, the Butcher Gang will come on top in the end. We always do." The older male sneered. Barley and Edgar were at a loss for what to do, either continue their endeavours or risk losing their boss.

"Bouillonburg has a new crime syndicate and it sure doesn't need a trio of has-beens calling the shots anymore." And they'd all know it from this day forward, as soon as she sent the infamous leader of the Butcher Gang flying out of the back of a moving truck.

Or, she would of, if not for the truck suddenly coming to a halt and sending everyone tumbling about at the sudden stop.

"Oi! Cam what gives?!" The demoness cried out as she pushed Charley off her. "Warn a gal, wouldn't ya? I coulda snapped my neck!"

"I err... Uhm... I am quite certain that that is the least of your troubles right now..." Cameraman called back from the cabin.

"Oh yeah? Why's that?!" She put her hands on her hips and looked towards the cabin. Just barely able to make out her friend's small body and the stilts he was using to reach the pedals.

"Because I'm very certain your very angry girlfriend that is standing in front of the truck, is probably higher up on the list..." Cameraman replied as he sunk slightly in his seat to escape the glare of a very upset angel.

Miss Twisted stood there, baffled for a second, before startling.

"Oh crud, what day is it?"

"Erm...Tuesday? Barley offered.

"The 10th!" Edgar added, before tapping his chin thoughtful. "Of November!"

".....Papa Pluto's crooked teeth, I forgot our anniversary!!!" The demoness cried out in horror. She was so screwed.

"You're kidding... You forgot your anniversary?!" Cameraman looked as incredulous as a camera could. "That's low, even for you Missy."

"And rude." Brute huffed. "Missy should apologize to pretty angel lady!"

"I can't go out there! She'll eat me alive!" Her arms quickly twisted around her own head in an attempt to hide her face.

"Honestly, with Alice? Kinda deserved." Charley snorted.

"Agreed, ya should feel ashamed for standin' up the poor lass." Barley scolded.

"Yeah... We may be villains, but we'd never be so rude as to forget a date!" Edgar crossed his arms.

"None of you have girlfriends you jerks!" Missy protested.

"Uh... Charley and Barley are married?" Cameraman gawked at her. "And Brute has a boyfriend?"

"Since when?!"

"Three weeks. Long distance. They write each other... Am I the only one that listens to either of you rambling during breakfast?!" Cameraman was in disbelief.

"And yes, we're married. Edgar's our kid... We're literally a crime family." Charley pointed out.

"Pretty angel lady coming over." Brute pointed out. True to his words, the upset angel was floating over to meet them, and if looks could kill...

"Uh-oh..."

"Nice knowing you Missy. I'm taking all your stuff when you die."

"No fair! Brute want nice radio!"

"I don't need another radio, so we've got a deal big fella."

"I'm not gonna die!"

"I SPENT HOURS SLAVING OVER A STOVE AND WAITING FOR YOU, AND YOU'RE OUT HERE DOING THIS?!"

"I'm gonna die!"

* * *

Miss Twisted didn't die in the end, but from the scolding she'd gotten alone she might as well have died a little inside. Hell had nothing on the righteous fury of an angel crossed. Needless to say, making it up to Alice would not be easy. Especially when she's been robbing a bank and told the getaway driver to drive as recklessly and dangerously as possible in a busy road close to a school.

Thankfully, Missy was a resourceful lady. She knew how to turn situations around. Go big or go home, right? And even if it cramped her style, she'd tolerate a few of the hobbies her lady love fancied. 

Playing the part of good samaritan was gag worthy, but if it made Alice happy, she'd oblige. There were ways to uphold her reputation as an emissary of misery, anyway... 

And oh, if the next big hits she had planned wouldn't fix a month's worth of good deeds then nothing would! Go big or go home indeed. 

The Butcher Gang wouldn't stay on top for much longer, and her girlfriend couldn't stay mad forever!

First thing was first tho, use a lot of the plundered riches to pay for a reservation at a fancy restaurant and wardrobe and accessories to match. Angel or not, Alice was still an appreciator of the mushy romantic stuff. Miss Twisted would just have to also make it up to the boys later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to fight off writer's block with a prompt request. Struggling a bit still.


	48. Locked Inside the Studio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting accidentally locked in the studio after-hours, Norman and Sammy feel less alone than they should of...

It was a bit of an inevitability that one day this scenario came to play, being locked in for the night after Wally mistakingly assumed all personal had vacated the premises. What was unexpected was that it happened to two people on the very same night...

The people in question however? What with Sammy's new habit of isolating himself in a secret and tightly locked corner he'd claimed for himself, and Norman's proficiency in getting inside nooks and crannies no one else thought a nearly 7 foot tall man could fit? Definitely the sort to escape the janitor's notice and end up in this conundrum... Especially considering they'd clocked out many hours prior to Wally cleaning up and setting off for the night. If anything, they deserved it for being exceptionally sneaky.

"Fantastic..." The blond composer groaned as he watched the much taller projectionist give up on trying to fiddle with the lock. Cheapskate as Joey was, Mr. Drew seemed to at least invest in some very tight security. Likely a courtesy of GENT when the studio's partnership with the company arose. "Just what I needed, to be kept from my bed another night because Franks decided to go home early."

"N'aw. I reckon it ain't that early... When I was comin' upstairs the clock read 'bout 2:50..." He tapped his chin in thought and snapped the pin of his cravat back into place, no longer needing it to act as a makeshift lockpick. "Must be witchin' hour just 'bout now. Takes these old bones o' mine a while to get up here all quick-like..."

"3AM? Already?!" Sammy worried his lower lip as he realized how sidetracked he'd become. He should get a clock into his sanctuary at some point to avoid something like this in the near future. "Abigail is going to kill me... She must have waited all night..."

"Yous could always just call the landline an' say yous as busy as a one-legged cat in a sandbox." Norman offered with a smile that was bordering on the mischievous "In kinder words no doubt."

"She'd spit fire over the phone if I woke her up at 3 in the morning." He grimaced as he rejected such an idea. "The one thing she inherited from her mother is the capacity to transform into a fire-spitting drake if you wake her up at an ungodly hour..."

At such a notion Norman couldn't help grin and guffaw at the sight of Samuel Lawrence in all his peacock-like might, cowering away from a positively irate 18 year old girl with his tail between his shaking legs.

"Well, slap my head and call me silly! Yous still got your funny bone somewhere in that pile of highfalutin' grouchiness." The Louisianan's smile only grew as Sammy glares up at him. "Hey now, don't yous go lookin' so sour. It's good that yous is still yourself... Even after..."

"I'd rather not talk about that, thank you very much!" The musician knew exactly what Norman was referring to and he cut the topic short immediately. "Lets focus on the fact we're both trapped for the night. I don't know about you but I, for one, am starving and exhausted."

The projectionist nodded, conceding to the fact they should head to the breakroom and see if anyone had forgotten their packed lunch, or if maybe Lottie had left some non-perishables in the cabinets next to the stove. Like canned beans or maybe even canned fruit.

"I'm so hungry my belly thinks my throat's been cut... Tell yous what, if we gots the ingredients I could make us my Nanna's go to dish for when we was lil' tots growin' up." An easy enough meal that was effortless to make, and gave him enough time to see if Grant still had those blankets in his office while his companion ate.

"And what's that?" Sammy asked, eyebrow raising.

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich." Norman winked, which earned him a groan. "N'aw don't you go dissin' my poor Nanna's cookin' she was a skilled lady, but we was several youngins! And we was growin' bigger every day."

"I'll say... You're as large as a breeding bull." With better taste in clothes, albeit often overdressed for the occasion.

"You askin' for a ride, cowboy?" The mischief returned to Norman's grin as he noted Sammy's unusual fondness for boots rather than dress shoes. A more practical choice in his humble opinion.

"Buy me dinner, you pig." The blond dismissed, albeit unable to keep a smile off his face. "A man of my caliber deserves proper servicing, wouldn't you agree?"

Before the conversation could get any bit lewder, a noise downstairs halted their banter altogether. The two instinctively turned their heads towards the stairs, twin expressions of concern as they assessed what they had both just heard. It had sounded like clattering, down in Dr. Hackenbush's tiny little infermary.

"You hear that?" An unnecessary question, as Sammy knew for a fact Norman had. Still it felt better to acknowledge it aloud.

"Somethin' yes... Probably them lousy paper-thin pipes again... I don't know where Mr. Connor is gettin' the metal for 'em but I have half a mind t' tell him off for gettin' such shoddy materials." He looked unnerved more so than curious. Maybe a little irritable as the noisy pipework distracted him just as much as it did Sammy.

"You'd think they were made of flimsy tin...Either way let's uh, let's go eat down in the breakroom." The blond shook his head and began making his way to the stairs. If there was anything in Hackenbush's workspace it's not like it could get to them. The damn thing had been locked for a while, until the Doctor's services were needed. Something about preventing people from stealing his sedatives or whatever.

He was probably worked up over a raccoon either way. The dang things kept getting in through the ventilation. Just the other day Wally had fought one over a donut of all things...And lost.

"Yeah..." The towering projectionist followed, quieter now. Pensive. "Might as well fill our bellies an' get some shut-eye... Tomorrow if we is lucky, Drew might let us go home an' shower."

"Maybe..." Sammy nodded. As reasonable as it was that a raccoon was the likely cause of the strange noise, he couldn't help feel like it might be something more sinister. He was sure Norman felt the same too, as neither were strangers to Joey's... Less than savoury dealings with criminals and charlatans. But the thoughts of a bit of sleep and a shower in the morning were much more interesting and inviting thoughts than to worry about his paranoia. "Maybe not."

"We'll see, now won't we?"

"Guess we will."

That night the pipes sounded louder somehow. It felt like they were calling to them even... Whether or not Norman heard the calls was debatable, as the man was harder to read than a Russian dictionary, but Sammy swore up and down that he could hear his name in the flow... It spooked him terribly.

Never again, he thought, would he let himself sleep over-night in this damnable studio. He already wasted enough time in there after all. Living in it was nowhere in his future. Even if it meant he could spend an entire night or two shooting the breeze with a man that both infuriated him and made his heart go soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request for some Sammy X Norman spooky time inspired me to write one of the last positive interactions the two had, before Sammy started going off his rocker thanks to his accidental ingestion.
> 
> At that point the Ink Demon was already trapped in the infermary.


	49. The Sad Tale of Norman Polk (Monster AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In many ways the sad tale of Norman Polk was the legacy of the Cuckooman...

Everyone knew about the Cuckooman that lived on the other side of the river, in his mighty big castle that was in the shape of a towering grandfather clock that one may see in a Dali painting. He was a strange fellow. A strange fellow indeed with stranger tastes in things one shouldn't get up to. Things so taboo that none dared speak of them above a whisper, lest the devil hear their depravity and bring misfortune their way…

Rumors bloomed like flowers in Spring however, and speculation ranged from an automaton come to life, to a fae with dealings in metal workings. The consensus however, was that he was merely insane in the membrane. A terribly sick man.

Even the Polk family, with their history of magic blood and eldritch connections, avoided conversation that brought up so much as the topic of gears from a clock, or surgical prowess of twisted brilliance.

Because the Cuckooman? Oh, he wasn't no witch-doctor, shaman, nor voodoo meister… To them he was indeed just a madman of the vilest sort...

Nanna herself was a true witch, a mighty fine one at that, and she had grown up in the shadows of that oppressive castle that loomed over the town like a predatory hawk. She was young when the Cuckooman was already a man, and even Poppop had huttered caution in her presence whenever she stared too long up at the turning hands of father time's measurement tools. She knew the rules best out of everyone in the farmstead. Four simple rules that kept them safe and sound:

Never utter the Cuckooman's true name, as he'd assume it to be an invitation.

Never speak of his creations, no matter how polite they may seem.

Never walk alone, as he would shadow behind.

Never stray at night, as it would invite him to spirit you away.

Everyday she recited these words to her son, and then to her grandchildren, and then finally to her great grandchildren. She told them with certainty that no harm would befall them if only they were good and obeyed.

Because the Cuckooman? He was not foolish enough to take from a crowd, nor to be seen in anyone's property. He preyed on weakness and isolation. A missing cat here, a disappeared goat there... Sometimes even an entire horse would be gone if he felt like he may get away. 

Then, during the following day, the Cuckooman would come to town with his newest pets. His newly created amalgams. Abominations of flesh and machinery. Twisted servants that bent to his every will. 

A coachman with the appearance of a stretched cat, with long limbs that shouldn't bend this or that way. So very finely dressed but also so very hollow-eyed, as expressive orbs were replaced with lightbulbs that glowed eerily yellow...

A valet with a goat's head and mechanical body, graceful in the way it moved and gracious in the way it spoke, but so very unwilling to utter word of how it was "hired"...

A near fully mechanical horse the size of the greatest stallion alive, braying and whining in a tinny hellish manner as it pulled along the Cuckooman's clockwork carriage...

Frightful sights for the folks of this quaint Louisianian town. Ones that inspired fear of just how bold the unhinged fellow inside the carriage might get… How above the law he may think himself to be...

Because none could ever prove those were the critters vanished into the night. Not even if it was painfully obvious, since the malformed creations themselves could not go against their master as proof. So none could ever find reason to prosecute the madman that lived on the other side of the river.

Instead they opted with doing their best to avoid such a fate befall another human being. The rules were created to save the townsfolk, and the rules were known by heart. Everything was good. And then one morning Bárbara and Louie Polk woke up to three of their children shaking them awake and shrieking that little five year old Norman was not in his bed…

* * *

The entire town searched relentlessly. Searched for the small little boy with curious disposition and the odd looking eye. Tried to find traces of where he might have gone, what could have taken him away, what could have just stolen a child from a secure home. Collective panic was in the air.

The scandal growing more and more outlandish, as word of mouth spread like wildfire. A tale of a child snatched from his bed, invalidating years worth of precautions that had been passed down like tradition to younger generations.

Everyone knew the Cuckooman was involved. But on that horrid day he did not come to showcase his newest creation, so could they really be sure?

The mad surgeon was, after all, an exibitionist by nature.

And this method of taking? To infiltrate someone's home and snatch away a child from their bed? How could they rule off a different assailant?

Had a rule been broken? Had little Norman strayed? Had he spoken the forbidden name? Impossible, he rarely spoke at all... Unwilling to partake in conversation with anyone but his family. Unknowing of taboo topics such as the monster that lived so close nearby.

Uncertainty stunted the search, fear and panic casting importance upon locking other children behind firm lock and key. Saving them from the looming threat across the river, whenever he may strike next.

But Bárbara was undeterred by such feelings. She would not rest easy unless her baby was returned to her, so she did the unthinkable. She packed up a bag full of spells and potions that Memaw helped her prepare and, with the blessing of Nanna, took Poppop's old pickaxe with her on a journey most foul.

The malicious spirit that cursed the tool was initially furious to be held by flesh he did not consider his own, but eager to render dead those that thought to steal his toys from him. Only he was allowed to torment the vermin that kept his lady company… As unthinkable as that may seem to most who did not know the tale of the man who saw the unsightly... If anything, Bárbara felt safer knowing the spirit hated the Cuckooman more than he did her, enough so that he did not whisper her sanity away in that impossible tongue of the eldritch.

The trek across the river was harduos and cold, but the embers of their shared ire made it easier to ignore the chill and the ache of her muscles.

The odd constructs the Cuckooman had created to decorate his lands were bizarre and disturbing to look at. 

Some looked like creatures that did not survive his processing.

Others looked like objects that had undergone some sort of… Meat culturing. Like watching mold grow on a petri dish, only she was staring at household appliances riddled with meaty tendrils and eyes. Sometimes teeth and hair.

The ones she disliked the most were the pristine cherub-like statues with real organic eyes that followed her every move. Observing her with pleading tearful expressions. There was nothing she could do for them now. But her son… There was still a chance that she could save him.

So onwards Bárbara went, pickaxe in hand and the spirit of Poppop at her back. Whispering in botched english. Calling into attention the misery in this place. Smirking mirthfully as it fueled him. Blood would spilled tonight, he just knew it. Predators had that knack for knowing when their next meal was presenting itself to them.

There was no one guarding the property. So cocky the Cuckooman was that he thought fear would keep everyone away for as long as he pleased. But a protective mother bear would never back down if her little cubs were in danger, and neither would Bárbara Polk. She looked everywhere, searching high and low indoors for her son. And then, finally, she found the Cuckooman's lab. A focal point of misery, lined with cells and illuminated by blindingly white florescent lights that made her eyes sting painfully.

The smell of copper… It was intoxicating in a way that made her stomach twists with nausea and dread.

She found animals in most cells, none of each were intact. Some in the beginning stages of transformation into quasi-mechanical creatures. Others fully transformed and ready to be programmed with undying loyalty to a master that forced this contorted life upon them.

But it was not the animals that made her heart ache. It was the body strapped to a gurney that had her retch drily with amounted horror. It wasn't the sweet baby boy, with his little round nose, plump lips and soft soulful eyes, that she saw strapped down so tightly like a diseased animal. There was no ebony shine to his skin, no rich brown tones in the light of his eyes, no curly raven locks to render her fingers through in comfort… Instead she saw something… Unspeakable... Profane!

A creature so freakish and grotesquely large and muscular that it couldn't have possibly been a child, let alone her sweet little five year old son!

But the pitiful wails and gasps, the broken words? They told her differently… Broke her heart and hopes in twain.

Bárbara cried anguished tears as a thing with a projector for a head and gangly limbs reached as best it could from under the straps, calling for mama to help. To stop the pain. Gasping without a mouth, crying without eyes, trembling from weakness brought upon by inhumanly experiments and hunger.

Her little boy… Turned into an abomination that felt only agony…

A mournful wail joined her little ones weak cries, as Bárbara fell to her knees, reaching out to her son and holding his frigid hand in her own. It was as large as his father's hands now…

And then Poppop hissed a harsh whisper, announcing the entrance of the culprit to his distraught wielder. The Cuckooman would die by her hand and his blade. And then his precious homestead and creations would burn and be set free of their collective torments.

Daft beast never even had a chance to process what killed him before the pickaxe buried itself in that thick skull of his. What enhancements he had that kept him alive so long, unable to save him from the unbridled fury of an enraged mother.

Those eyes… How she wished they'd been more than merely surprised to see someone in his castle...

Once the deed was done Poppop devoured the scraps of soul that resided within the hollow man, and relished in the heinous sins he'd committed upon the innocent. One shouldn't feed malicious spirits, but then again when had the Polks cared to heed the whispers of ancient mages and warlocks?

Their family had been cast in cursed irons welded into blades embowed with the blood of ancient gods. Their progenitor patriarch a product of cultist rituals that called upon the wisdom and brutal honesty of ancient ones. Their progenitor matriarch marked by the essence of ancients that had coursed within her accursed beloved, bred into her son and passed down into the bloodline. They were powerful and humble folk, but tainted. Burdened with uncomfortable truths and the gift of hearing what should never be heard.

Gifts Bárbara did not possess, as she was merely a bride to a true-blooded Polk, but who benefitted from the protection of Nanna who thought her worthy enough to be allowed into the family.

Warnings were well beneath the options available to them… And, if anything, the Cuckooman had only proven that following certain rules was nothing but a fruitless endeavor. Those rules, as sacred as they'd seemed, had certainly not kept Bárbara's little boy safe from the cruelty of man…

* * *

She took the stolen mechanical stallion and the carriage. Needed them to transport her child who's body was so altered she couldn't even carry him any longer. Heavy and far too gangly to fit in her aching arms.

The beast of burden knew the way home. It had belonged to them once, poor Nickelhide befalling the trap of his own given name. Now truly of nickel hide.

The townsfolk feared at first, upon sighting the contraption heading their way. Feared that the Cuckooman had come to steal more of their children away for his savage purposes. But they were awed when kindly Miss Bárbara Polk left the carriage instead. Briefly leaving her son's side to proclaim the madman dead. Pointing to the smoke in the distance as the pyre consumed the horrors that had haunted the town for centuries. 

The cheers or her peers gave her no comfort, as she still had yet to reach her home. Bárbara had to see if Nanna could help her little one in some way…

Louie, her beloved husband, bellowed in sorrow once she reached the farm, upon seeing their broken baby that she could barely drag out of the carriage alone.

Memaw and Pepaw had to push their other children inside and away from the horrid sight, as both mother and father struggled to carry their not-so-little-brother to Nanna's shack. She was expecting them. She already knew. Poppop spoke kindly to her, and her alone. So there was no delay to what little she could do to stop her great grandson's agony.

Fixing him would be impossible, but at least she could ensure he would be himself and not a mindless beast of some sort. Hard to accomplish with a being with no heart to call his own. But Nanna always found a way.

Still… what a sad tale, that of little Norman Polk…

Gentle mind and soul trapped within the body of a muscular behemoth. Carrying a lantern that held not light, for he had no need for one, but a mechanical heart. A brute by design alone. Beloved by his family yet feared by those of the outside world that had not lived through the horrors of the Cuckooman.

The legacy of a true monster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to make a frankenstein's monster's story sad to help you cope with stress.


	50. Toons: Designed to Fail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some toons were just designed to fail. Luckily Cameraman had toons in his life to help him deal with that.

There aren't very many object-heads in Bouillonburg. In fact there are so few of them that one could perhaps count them with their two hands and perhaps a foot and a half. Alright, realistically speaking maybe there weren't THAT few of them… but all exaggerations aside, the fact of the matter was that Cameraman stood out in a crowd whenever he decided to leave the relative peace and not so quiet of the Society's base. Not that that wasn't already easy enough as it stood...

Oddball toons like him just stood out like a sore thumb in general, even among others of their kin. In small towns where the population was practically 90% living fabrications and 10% organic deliveries.

Because of course, of all the rotten luck he'd been saddled with (and he'd been through quite a LOT of misfortune), he just had to have been the one little camera creature to be made so very strangely in his factory batch...

Most fully organic toons wouldn't understand such a predicament. You were born a specific way and that was all fine and dandy with everyone else in the world. It even gave you a few bonus points for charm and uniqueness.

But object toons? Ooh boy, you didn't want to be the designer brat or the factory defect of the bunch.

If you were born it was to serve some sort of purpose in life, and if you couldn't serve that purpose? Or (in his case), if you weren't "good enough" for it? Well… what point was there to live at all?

Only the boldest members of the flock ever asked the factory for a "new kind of breed", and those toons were either genius pioneers or straight up looney toons.

Imagine that, dooming your kid to an uncertain life of either misery or success… Setting a high standard for them to achieve even before they were made. 

That had been exactly what Cameraman's biological parents had done to him, and look at him now! 

A wanted criminal in a big city that was filled to the brim with fleshies that gave him the side eye whenever he passed by.

The kind of unfriendly mugs that scooted their chairs away whenever he sat down at a cafe, or that walked to the other side of the road if he was walking towards their general direction…

Not that that would change if he weren't a criminal, mind you. He'd learned pretty quickly that the folks here were just plain racist towards him and his kind.

Unwilling to share a space with what they considered a possessed household appliance. As if they had the money to buy a camera of his caliber (not that he had one, all things considered, as he was not quite a press camera, and not quite an expensive luxury).

"Ain't that just the way?" He hummed to himself as he carried on walking, hands crossed behind his back and head held low as he kicked a can he'd come across half a block away. "Pop into this marvelous little existence, meant to photograph the wonders of the living and yet I'm just not fit for any job, or even basic decencies like respect..."

The receipt on his packaging said he had been custom-made at the factory by the request of one Mr. Presston G. Flex and Mrs. Rolla Flex. Both his parents through DNA alone, and the designers of his unconventionally equipped thinker. 

He'd been shipped overseas and somehow ended up lost along the coast. A tiny squirming and wailing baby floating in the sea and miraculously ending up at a river rather than the contrary.

He can't recall the ordeal leading up to it exactly (he may have a photographic memory but he'd still been tightly confined to a padded dark box), but he did remember having been frightened, starving, and colder than a block of ice. At risk of dying from exposure when by some work of whatever god was out there, there was a sudden bright light bearing down upon him.

His mom and pop had found him in a ditch, recognized what the inconspicuous package design meant, and hurried to come to his aid. A couple of lovely lamp toons that hadn't been ready for a child, much less one so different from them, but who'd grown attached once it became apparent that no one was coming to look for a lost parcel.

"Rubbish of them…" his old pop (aptly named Lampman as mandated family tradition), had told him once he'd been old enough to question why he looked like no one in the family. "Some folks, they would rather replace what they don't even know they're missing. Never even give a chance to those who deserve it… You're something real special son, you deserved better than what they did to you."

Essentially confirming that not even the people who had him made wanted anything to do with him. Abandoned at birth, and found in a town full of strays.

Typical tale in his hometown. More lost kids than you'd be comfortable with the thought of, but at least most would spare them a dime or two to get some amenities. It was common sense to be kind to those less fortunate after all. Especially children that never asked to even be made and dumped in this cruel cruel world...

Not on Bouillonburg though.

Oh no, this was a wolf eat wolf kind of city. Full to the brim with devils of all shapes and sizes too. He should know, he sleeps inside a bonafide demoness's underwear drawer (emptied out for obvious reasons, although the smell of lavender drawer soap clung to him like a stubborn barnacle on the side of a ship).

City of prosperity some called it, but if you lived there you knew to call it a city of sin.

There was a reason why Pluto himself sent his spawn to torment the not so kindly city-folk after all…

"Not that I pity the fiends…" another harsh kick sent the can flying into a bin. A precision shot worthy of a medal, if anyone actually cared for the cleanliness of these streets. "Hell already has a spot all cozied up and waiting pretty for most of this place's vermin."

Now, Cameraman may be a bit of an overachiever with a major in at least five different subjects (photography, cinematography, drama, literature and engineering), and also be a criminal down on his luck… But at the very least he was no fool. He never spared pity or sympathy where it was not deserved, and the toons in this hellhole of a city? 

They didn't deserve a lick of it. 

So he behaved in kind to his observations and rarely allowed himself proximity to anything besides a good bottle of alcohol and maybe a potential date for a late night "photography session".

Rare was it that he met decent enough companies that were worth more than to see what was below his belt, and rarer still that they were decent enough for him to genuinely enjoy their presence.

So imagine his surprise when he'd met Missy and Brute in super prison.

A twisty and twirly gal than ran afoul of the lupine interloper that had simply tossed him behind bars like one tosses a trash bag into a dumpster, and a massive hulking wolf that was cradling his jaw with the surliest look on his fuzzy face after meeting the pest's cans of bacon-flavoured justice. One could even dare say it was kinship at first sight!

And (somehow) despite the subsequent failure of their revenge against Souper Boris, that kinship had stuck.

Even without the dastardly wolf to fight on a daily basis.

"Now if only they actually understood certain difficulties they're privileged to never face…" of course all relationships, even such nice friendships as his own, weren't without their little issues.

The Society's greatest hurdle was that (again) Cameraman was the only object-head of the team, thus there was a rather large… 

Let us call it a cultural divide. One that came with massive glaring flaws at times.

Oh and actual glares too.

There were places the two could go that he was barred entry from, and there were terms that bothered him that occasionally got an oblivious laugh out of his two companions.

Their ignorance was the biggest problem, and it was hard to explain to them that what they considered harmless or that they weren't privy to detect was actually quite demoralizing to him.

The worst part being that they didn't mean harm by it. They just couldn't see they were playing into the problem, or that they needed to do anything in particular to make things easier on him. Rough and tumble that they were, they expected the solution to most problems to be beating it into submission. It's how they learned to survive, growing up in difficult households.

But of course you couldn't beat the ignorance out of people, no matter how much you wished you could. If anything you might exacerbate it.

Which actually leads to his current predicament...

"Oh bothersome, truly heinous, repulsive language barrier..." he sighed, or rather clicked, unhappily as he carried on walking down the street. "It'll take me ages to get back to base and not one of these idiots understands me without my translator, so I cannot even call for a cab…"

To put it simply, his belt's speaker had been heavily damaged during his latest plot against a rather infuriating wannabe film critic, that pulled assumptions out of his fat arse rather than actually watch the content he was reviewing for actual information.

The damnable nerdy bison with glasses reminiscent of an owl's eyes, had managed to headbutt him on the stomach forcefully enough to basically crush the translator within the speaker itself.

Without it Cameraman was essentially incapable of communicating in English (because of course he was not exactly designed with vocal chords), and no one in the city (not even his two pals who weren't particularly fussed with learning new languages) understood camera-speak.

To them he was just a flailing little creature jumping up and down and clicking his shutter rapidly for absolutely no reason.

"Heckin' CLUNKER here's gone mad."

"Go on an' clicks somewheres else bub! We don' take kindly to yous THINGS makin' weird noises at us proper folks!"

"Beat it LENSY, before I shove that reel up where the sun ain't ever gonna shine!"

"What's IT doing mama?"

"Don't look at IT Timmy.. "

The insults… He'd heard them all before when he first moved here. The translator had been the first gadget he'd fashioned up upon realizing no one understood him whatsoever. Not like in his hometown.

Another glaring design flaw of his kind. Unless you were any sort of noise-maker like a radio or a telephone, you couldn't exactly mimic common organic speech.

And if you didn't look or speak like them, obviously something was wrong with you.

"Suppose I deserve this." He sighed once more "I shouldn't have ever moved to this place to begin with. Should have gone and done just as pop told me and simply dreamt smaller. An office job as a desk lamp would have offered a steady income…"

And less trips to the private clinic in the bad side of town, where the prostitutes knew him by name, and the drug dealers steered clear of him least they incurred what little laser-fueled wrath he had to offer them if they thought to harass him.

"Oh wouldn't that be lovely… Get to see mom and pop everyday after work, actually have stories of genuine employment success instead of having to shut my shutter so I don't see their looks of disappointment when I shamefully lie to their faces… I'd probably be married by now and have a child or two…" And maybe not spend his days feeling like he'd achieved absolutely nothing when his cousins told him about their exploits during family gatherings. Not being the failure of the family, or the thug that spat in the face of parents that loved him so much despite him being a dangerously difficult child to raise... Wouldn't that be grand? "I wonder if perhaps I'd deserve their pride over my worthless carcass…"

Honestly, his folks didn't deserve the little black sheep they got.

A deadbeat son that hurt people when he lost control of his temper due to an endless surplus of vendettas, and who used his laser for theft and vandalism when they'd trained him with the utmost diligence, so that he'd never become the monster he thought he was destined to be when he'd nearly shot a hole through his mother's head at the tender age of 4.

He'd caught Bulb flu and sneezed for the first time in his life, which somehow unlocked his laser function.

He'd been rather frightened of this newfound ability and frankly so had his parents. Who in their right mind designed a camera that shot laser beams? 

Who thought a child should be born with such a devastating ability?!

Naturally he'd assumed something was wrong with him and that maybe he was different from mom and pop because he was actually some form of alien abomination that would one day destroy the world (silly yes, but he had been a very imaginative toddler with older cousins that liked to scare him with spooky tales of monsters and ghoulies because to them he was the ugly duckling of the family).

"Of course most of my differences came down to shoddy designing. Maybe I'm not an alien or a monster, but I'm certainly flawed to the point of embarrassment…" he concluded. "Not that they'd ever agree with me. The moment they realized I had a flashlight incorporated in my shutter they were over the moon at how talented a source of light I was…"

His mom and pop were sweet like that. Despite the trouble that came with raising a child they barely understood anything about (they'd had to learn his speaking pattern and dietary needs pretty quickly), and that could harm them if he so much as sneezed or had a particularly bad tantrum, they always found ways to make him feel special. They were great and he was lucky they'd saved his life and taken him in, even if at the end of the day he didn't deserve that unconditional love.

"Hm, now I just feel worse about myself." Not hard considering he was still out in the cold, incapable of communicating for a pickup, and he was pretty sure it was about to rain.

The revving of a motor startled him as he turned the corner. One so loud he couldn't help but let out a few expletives in fright, knowing that at the very least the son of a gun that was going nuts with his car wouldn't be able to understand.

Or, at least he assumed so.

"Ok kid, ya kiss ya mother with that shutter?" The droning rumble of vehicle-speak startled him more than the revving, and the subsequent quick turn of the head nearly gave him whiplash. Served him right for playing owl.

"Oh lucky me…" he muttered as the glaring headlights of a taxi stared him down. "Salutations Gaskette. Lovely evening for a ride isn't it?"

"Lovely my fuel cap. Ya got some good sight on ya bub, can't ya see it's gonna leak like a faulty reservoir tank?" The surly cab replied in a cross tone "And that ain't even talking about the cold! Winds so frigid they could frost up my poor windows! And I just had them cleaned up too…"

"Quite the shame. No one enjoys a ride without a scenic route to behold." Not that he cared, but might as well humor the usually hostile taxi. "Can't be good for the business."

"Not at all. But the weather is the least of my troubles…" Gaskette sighed, the purr of his engine now muted as he rested by the sidewalk. "Between cab-ditchers and those new fandangled wagons that toons are buying these days, I find myself getting less and less to spare. My poor servos just can't compete with those manual private cars…"

"Oh dear, ain't that just the way… You'd think a respectable gent like yourself might find a profit in this city..." Well, actually it didn't surprise him all that much. Why ride in a car toon when a toon could simply have their own car? No idle chit-chat, no hassle of payment, and (for most people it seemed) no regard for road regulations… If things were already tough enough for object-head toons, Cameraman couldn't even begin to imagine what actual animated object toons were dealing with in terms of unemployment.

"Lovely sentiment that one, but no cigar little camera boy." Gaskette snorted. "This city just ain't what it used to be. Not for folks like us anyway…"

"It's Cameraman...Speaking of which, I didn't think a car would know anything but vehicle-speak and perhaps heavy-speak…" he commented. "I was quite sure I might be the only one around here that understood this dialect."

"Fool that ya are, I don't doubt that ya'd think that. Ain't an easy one to learn." Gaskette grumbled "But I got a niece who married a projector toon. He's got little cousins that are camera folk like ya. So he taught me a little…"

"That so?" He clicked curiously. What a rather odd couple, but he'd heard love could work in mysterious ways. Or was it that love was blind? Hm, who knew?

"I'm a little unpolished of course, can understand just fine but my pronunciation is horrid. My motor just wasn't made to click you know…"

"Understanding is enough. I can understand you just fine so this works out nicely. Which takes us to my, err… proposition here." He opened up a compartment on his belt and pulled out a wad of cash (pilfered from a wallet he'd found on the side of the road that appeared to be from off state). "I need a ride to the outskirts of town, where the road leads into the swamp."

"Oof, don't do swamps. Ain't no all-terrain taxi, bub..." Gaskette twisted his grill into a grimace of disgust, likely imagining his tires caked in filthy muck from the swampy grounds.

"You don't need to go into the swamp, my good fellow. Just take me as close as possible and I'll walk the rest of the way." He explained. "Provided you do so, all this money is yours."

"All of it? That's at least five grand." The cab squinted, headlights illuminating the wad of notes. "We're just a couple of blocks away."

"Consider it solidarity. Ain't easy finding work these days, and I'd rather lend a hand where I know it will be appreciated."

"Hm… so a tip for a favour is it?"

"Clever taxi." Cameraman chuckled, knowing fully well that he already had a ride. "Do we have a deal?"

"Can't say no to five grand for little to no work. We have a deal." The cab door popped open. "Hop in."

Bouillonburg may not be as accommodating to their kind as it is with most of its population, but one thing was true: It couldn't extinguish that sort of sympathetic culture that most animated objects and object-heads harboured for each other in locations where they were considered minorities. The little arrangement may have been a quid pro quo sort of thing, but it still went to show that infamy of one's reputation (and both Cameraman and Gaskette had some terribly rotten reputations) could be cast aside as easy as if asking for a nickel to buy a pack of cheap cigs. Not that he smoked (bad for his squishy innards and his ventilation system).

Empathy was a powerful thing, especially considering how little the fleshies had to spare for them.

Not that there weren't the few decent folks of that kind milling about. The few that actually had a working brain.

Just as there were snobby animated objects and object-heads that believed in all that "pedigree" nonsense.

What was it worth being branded like common household appliances really?

Didn't really make anyone more or less special. If anything it was like having an embarrassing piercing or tattoo.

"So, those two bozos you usually hang around…" Gaskette began as he drove at a leisurely pace. "They ditch ya or something?"

"No, not at all." He leaned back into his padded seat, getting comfortable and relishing in the warm interior of the cab. "I had business in town today and they stayed back at our humble abode."

"Hm, not too keen on catching a cold?" The weather was really quite frigid, and while Brute was better at handling it than Missy due to his fur, the big bruiser of a wolf had also been reluctant to go outside.

The pair was a bit fussy really, and they wore clothes! How could you be so easy to chill when you wore clothes?

"Something of the sort."

"And I'm guessing with that little old gadget of yours all busto, ya couldn't call for them to come get ya?"

"Uh-huh." Not as if he had spare change for a telephone booth anyway. He'd only had notes on him and he would have been unable to enter an establishment to use their phone. He wasn't allowed in most stores in this particular part of town. One could very easily guess why with all the signs saying "no objects allowed".

"Unlucky. Fortunately I ended up crossing paths with ya." Gaskette's gaze was easy to track as the light of his headlights moved about. "This neighborhood ain't too fond of...You know..."

"I figured the first time a couple of delinquents followed me into an alleyway… Their mistake." He chuckled at the fond memory. He'd fried the fur or clothes off their sorry behinds, leaving them with bare buttocks and a roasted arsehole to explain to whatever medical practitioner saw fit to tend to their ruined bottoms. "Sometimes my stature makes for some great lesson giving opportunities."

"Never underestimate your opponent." Gaskette concluded, likely grinning knowingly.

"Never indeed." He fiddled with the seatbelt. "The one good thing that's come out of whatever misguided ideas the factory implemented into my head."

"Who designs a camera that shoots lasers anyway?"

"Likely the same lunatic that designs a taxi cab that can spit out his own engine as a magnetized ranged weapon."

"Some crazy contemporary wannabe engineers out there… Thankfully most of my quirks are internal. The rest? Well, I look very much like my father."

"Lucky you, my good fellow. Lucky you." Because Cameraman looked like no one else out there. No one at all. 

Not Mr. Presston G. Flex, and definitely not Mrs. Rolla Flex. And especially not his mom and pop, but that was a given…

He was just a little guy with a distinct appearance. Often regarded as rather ugly to those who didn't see the appeal of his smooth surfaces and sharp angles.

All of which complimented his natural curves and handsome (in his humblest opinion!) physique.

"I think ya look just fine bub. May not have a set of wheels or a set of brakes on ya, but at the very least you're functionally built." Gaskette was right in that regard. 

He could at least live a regular life. Some object-heads with less conventional designs, on the other hand?

Well... Best not think of the misguided artistry of whoever saw fit to have a designer brat that couldn't even walk or enjoy life.

"Could have been made a little taller. I haven't grown any inches since I was 10!" He'd been a small baby too, barely able to lift his head. His mom told him he'd been rather chubby as well, but he wouldn't know. He'd only started taking photos when he was 6, and only a few were self portraits.

"Alright bub, we're here." The taxi took a right turn and stopped at a gate that led to the path he'd very much have to walk through to get to the swamp and then the Society's base. "If ya hurry along ya might beat the rain."

"Thank you very much so, Gaskette." As promised he slipped the money into the vehicle toon's tips box. "I'll be sure to call you whenever I need to cash in that favour."

"Frequency's right there. Now scram ya little camera boy. Still early in the night. Might get a few drunkards that need a ride home." He clambered out of the living taxi after snapping a picture of Gaskette's radio frequency and waved goodbye once he zoomed off back into the city.

"Enjoy your evening!"

He doesn't stick around to hear a response, be it a yell or a few honks of acknowledgement. There's a lot to trek still to get home, and he'd rather not get too wet thank you very much.

At least that quick photo would give him the energy boost he needed to get home safely...

Why even call a swamp home, one may ask? Why when it stinks to high heavens, when there are bugs and critters living everywhere (sometimes gators too), and when the dampness was definitely not good for his more sensitive inner mechanisms (and where there was also this terrible feud between his two pals and the mosquito population that he luckily was not a part of, since he didn't have blood for them to feed on)?

Upon careful consideration it was obvious that a swamp was not the most accommodating of places for any toon, be they fully organic or an anthropomorphic object… And, to that question, one could only expect the obvious response: Because no sane toon would bother searching the swamp.

It's where the three were safest from getting attention, because who in their right mind built a supervillain base/home in such a horrid gross location?

The Society of course. 

Because they weren't stupid.

"Not like those Butcher schmucks. Foolish fiends giving themselves away with frivolous things like fanciful telescopes and a flashy ship with it's own personal shark infested dock…" he grumbled to himself. "Talk about a cliche… The Society's humble abode is fashionably inconspicuous and easy to miss out here in these disgusting mucky wetlands. Charley's practically begging to be towed to prison…"

Not that there weren't some cons to being so under the radar. Basic amenities for example, needed to be carefully rationed because carting back tons of those would be difficult and very suspicious.

They used what they could, and they had whatever they were lucky to steal from town or forage out in the actual swamp.

Because of course some idiots just threw away perfectly good stuff into the water here… Just the other day he'd found a perfectly good recliner!

Now all he needed was to get the stench out of the dang thing and they'd have a nice little seat in the "living room" to read on. Not that they had many books.

"Maybe next time I'll find a bookcase." He chuckled. "Then it's a matter of collecting some reading material that isn't gag worthy."

But first he had to tend to his translator, which meant less talking to himself and more walking.

A good 25 minutes of walking later, and he's reached the devil shaped building just as it begins to pour. It's around 2AM from what the clock on the wall tells him, so he doesn't expect either of his two roommates to be awake.

A direct route to the "lab" leads to a good 10 minutes of disassembling his belt before he has to call it quits. Not without clicking up a storm of profanities however.

The dang bison dweeb had managed to crush the one part that was hardest to replace!

"Of all the rotten luck! Son of a gun, I'll murder that snooty and smelly lump of fuzzy flesh!" He stamped his feet in irritation and kicked over his toolbox in frustration, caught up in the anger of being rendered mute by the worst critic in the history of toonkind.

First he was deemed too much of a "mutt" to enter the high class pedigree-only world of photojournalism, then he was denied entry into his second passion (the film industry), and now he couldn't even enjoy his hobby?! Oh, he wanted to FRY something so badly that his head was starting to heat up!

"Oi what's all this racket?!" The light turned on, causing the object-head to freeze up on the spot. He'd managed to wake up Miss Twisted thanks to his little temper tantrum.

She stood in the doorway, hands resting on her hips as she tapped her slippered foot on the tile floor.

Her hair was down and she had her thick robe on, likely having shrugged it on to combat the cold since the base had no central heating, and it was honestly quite frigid out at this hour.

"Well?" She raised an eyebrow at him, expecting an answer he couldn't give her.

He considered his options. He could shrug and pretend everything was fine, maybe enduring getting chewed out but ultimately managing to keep from embarrassing himself. Or, since he was likely to be stuck without a replacement part for a while, he could open himself up for ridicule and face the music on the irony that the wordiest and most talkative member of the Society for the Shellacking of Souper Boris was incapable of comprehensive speech (well, unless you understood and spoke his language that is).

"You're on very thin ice mister." Missy warned, her impatience adding to her already sour mood "I don't like being kept waiting Cam."

Finally, upon pondering on the matter for a few more seconds, Cameraman hunched his shoulders in defeat and looked down.

<Sorry…> he clicked hesitantly, expecting a laugh.

"What was that?" Instead he got honest concern. "Did something happen?"

He looked up at her before tapping his chin in thought. He went over to the workbench and picked up his broken belt, showing it to her, then tapped his throat where his vocal cords would be if he had any at all. Somewhat like the universal sign for, "I can't talk", if you actually didn't know sign language.

Which he should maybe learn.

<Broken> he didn't know why he was bothering to actually talk since she couldn't understand (and the confused look on her face said as much), but he still vocalized it as he gestured the motion of a hammer coming down on the belt.

She seemed to consider this before it finally processed.

"Wait...You need your belt to talk?" She added the two gesticulations together and the clicking noises she couldn't understand to reach that conclusion. Not bad, he hoped to not need to keep up the charades. He hated charades.

He nodded at her.

"And it's broken now." She stared at the sparking part within the belt. It looked very much broken, yes. "Can you fix it?"

He would frown if he could.

Now that was the problem. He could, but finding the right part was not going to be easy. As such, he gave her a so-so motion before pointing at the broken bit and holding up his free hand to rub his thumb and index together.

She squinted at him before her mouth took on a circular 'O' form. She clicked her tongue.

"Not a cheap fix uh… Well, as nice as it is to not get bored listening to you drone about your dumb movies, I'd miss having you raving about other stuff instead." She stretched one of her arms forward and took the belt from him, which earned her a few angry clicks and flailing limbs as he tried to retrieve it. She put her free hand over his chest and kept him at bay before putting the belt over on the workbench again. Then she used her now free hand to grab him.

Cameraman clicked furiously as he was lifted up from under his arms and brought over to the demoness.

"Don't you be like that you fussy idiot, we can sort that tomorrow. Right now you need to rest that big head of yours." She chastised as she began carrying him over her shoulder like a wriggly sack of potatoes to the shared bedroom. "We can get Brute to cause a ruckus while you and I find that part you need. Then you'll be back to your grumpy grumbly self, and probably annoy me to death with more of your high quality critiques."

He whined and clicked angrily in protest, but there wasn't any use saying no to Miss Twisted. She was a demoness, yes, but also the biggest mother hen that he knew (besides his own mother that is). 

Always looking out for "her boys".

Before he knew it he was sitting on his drawer bed, arms crossed and glaring at his female friend. Brute was over on his side of the room, comfortably asleep wrapped up in his favourite blanket and hugging his pillow. Sleeping like a muscular log.

Missy sat on her bed, opening up the sleeping bag she'd slipped out of to go check up on him.

"Go on you dumbo. Rest. Tomorrow you get to tell me off all you want, but right now I need my beauty sleep." She stuck her tongue out and crawled back into her warm artificial cocoon.

He huffed in displeasure but pulled his shoes and gloves off before beginning to knead at his pillow. His claws dug in and pulled, shifting the pillow stuffing around a bit before he spun around a few times until he was nice and settled in his resting position. He closes his shutter for a second, before opening it back up and reaching under the pillow for the lens cap.

He popped it on before finally relaxing a bit. It helped to settle him if he got his cap on when he went to bed.

A trick his parents had learned very quickly, and that they used whenever he was anxious or feeling very fussy.

It was a technique mostly used to soothe baby cameras, like what you did with an organic toon and their pacifier, but he knew at least a few that still had their caps well into adulthood. It wasn't THAT weird.

Plus not many had a tendency to shoot lasers when they had nightmares, so the cap also served a double purpose as protection against that unpredictable mechanism.

Feeling less upset about the translator, Cameraman considered his day's misadventures and what came out of them. On one hand, he'd once again proven that he'd definitely been designed to fail time and time again. That the moment he left the factory he'd been screwed out of the sort of life that had been rightfully his.

But then he'd also considered how awfully lucky he actually ended up being as well.

His mom and pops loved him and felt proud of him, even if he wasn't doing anything good with his life.

His two friends were privileged idiots, but even the one who might get something out of mocking him (demons relished and sustained themselves on the misery of others) for his "defects" instead cared more about his well being than her own.

And then he'd also found an unlikely partnership and understanding with Gaskette, Bouillonburg's most ornery animated taxi cab. A very promising ally.

What had he lost compared to what he had gained? A replaceable part of his belt vs two lamps that were ten times better parents than two stuck up cameras that couldn't be bothered to chase after their lost parcel, a strong kinship with two other downtrodden criminals that would just as eagerly move mountains for him as he would for them, and a favour for a time of dire need?

Hm… Flawed design or not, even in a place like Bouillonburg, Cameraman was less of a failure than what he'd long since assumed. And even if stuff got rough and he fell on his arse on occasion, there wasn't much lower than hitting rock bottom. He'd just had to get back up on his two feet and climb the ladder all over again. And if Missy had given him anything, it was the slightest hope that there was at least someone to help break his fall, and maybe pull him back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt inspired to finish this headcanon rambly mess of a drabble in between working on art and the second chapter of Out of Bounds.  
> I've got a lot of Cameraman headcanons that I just want to share with the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions and prompts are welcome as long as people keep it SFW!


End file.
